fci-^^.    J L  9(11^^10 


THE 


COMPLETE    POEMS 


JEAN     INGELOW, 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1872. 


author's  edition 


Cambridge  :  Presswork  by  John  Wilson  and  .son. 


©etiication. 


GEORGE   K.   INGELOW. 

YOUR  LOVING  SISTEK 

OFFERS  YOU  THESE  POEMS,  PARTLY  AS 

AN  EXPRESSION  OF  HER  AFFECTION,  PARTLY   FOE   THB 

PLEASURE  OF  CONNECTING  HER  EFFORT 

WITH     YOUR  NAME. 


Kejtsixoton,  June,  1SG3. 


PR 

Ai 

'9- 


CONTENTS. 

— •— 

Page 

Divided 7 

HoT^oRS.  —  Part  I i6 

Honors.  —  Part  II. 27 

Requiescat  in  Pace! 44 

Supper  at  the  Mill 55 

Scholar  and  Carpenter 69 

The  Star's  Monument 90 

A  Dead  Year 127 

Reflectioi^s 135 

The  Letter  L 140 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  .  177 

afternoon.at  a  parsonage     .       .        .       .  1 86 

Songs  of  Seven 201 

A  Cottage  in  a  Chine      .....  215 

Persephone 221 

A  Sea  Song 227 

Brothers,  and  a  Sermon 229 

A  Wedding  Song 265 


CONTENTS. 


The  Four  Bridges 267 

A  Mother  showing  the  Portrait  of  her  Child    302 
Strife  and  Peace 310 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Dreams  that  came  true      .       .        .       .  i 

Songs  on  the  Voices  of  Birds. 

Introduction.  —  Child  and  Boatman     .        .  24 

The  Nightingale  heard  by  the  Unsatisfied 

Heart 26 

Sand  Martins 28 

A  Poet  in  his  Youth,  and  the  Cuckoo-Bird  30 

A  Raven  in  a  White  Chine    ....  39 

The  Warbling  of  Blackbirds     ...  41 

Sea-Mews  in  Winter-Time       ....  43 

Laurance 46 

Songs  of  the  Night  Watches. 

Introductory.  —  Evening      ....  93 

The  First  Watch.  —  Tired      ....  94 

The  Middle  Watch 103 

The  Morning  Watch 108 

Concluding.  —  Early  Dawn  .       .       .        .  no 


COXTEXTS.  VU 

A  Story  of  Doom 113 

Contrasted  Songs. 

Sailing  beyond  Seas 230 

Remonstrance 232 

Song  for  the  Night  of  Christ's  Resurrection  233 

Song  of  Margaret 242 

Song  of  the  going  away 244 

A  Lily  and  a  Lute 246 

Gladys  and  her  Island 259 

Songs  with  Preludes. 

Wedlock 297 

Regret 301 

Lamentation 303 

Dominion 307 

Friendship 311 

Winstanley 315 

Notes 331 


POEMS. 


DIVIDED. 


N  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather, 
Purple   of  foxglove,  yellow  of 
broom ; 
We  two  among  them  wading  to- 
gether. 
Shaking    out    honey,    treading 
perfume. 


Crowds  of  bees  are  giddy  with  clover. 
Crowds  of  grasshoppers  skip  at  our  feet, 

Crowds  of  larks  at  their  matins  hang  over, 
Thanking  the  Lord  for  a  life  so  sweet. 

[7] 


DIVIDED. 

Flusheth  the  rise  with  her  purple  favor, 
Gloweth  the  cleft  with  her  golden  ring, 

'Twixt  the  two  brown  butterflies  waver 
Lightly  settle;  and  sleepily  swing. 


We  two  walk  till  the  purple  dieth 

And  short  dry  grass  under  foot  is  brown, 

But  one  little  streak  at  a  distance  lieth 
Green  like  a  ribbon  to  prank  the  down. 


II. 

Over  the  grass  we  stepped  unto  It, 

And  God  He  knoweth  how  blithe  we  were ! 

Never  a  voice  to  bid  us  eschew  it : 

Hey  the  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair ! 


Hey  the  green  ribbon  !  we  kneeled  beside  it, 
We  parted  the  grasses  dewy  and  sheen ; 

Drop  over  drop  there  filtered  and  slided 
A  tinv  bright  beck  that  trickled  betweeo- 


DIVIDED. 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  sweetly  it  sung  to  us, 
Light  was  our  talk  as  of  fiiery  bells  — 

Faery  wedding-bells  faintly  rung  to  us 
Down  in  their  fortunate  parallels. 


Hand  in  hand,  while  the  sun  peered  over, 

We  lapped  the  grass  on  that  youngling  spring ; 

Swept  back  its  rushes,  smoothed  its  clover, 
And  said,  "  Let  us  follow  it  westering." 


ni. 

A  dappled  sky,  a  world  of  meadows, 
Circling  above  us  the  black  rooks  fly 

Forward,  backward ;  lo,  their  dark  shadows 
Flit  on  the  blossoming  tapestry  — 


Flit  on  the  beck,  for  her  long  grass  parteth 
As  hair  from  a  maid's  bright  eyes  blown  back ; 

And,  lo,  the  sun  like  a  lover  darteth 

His  flattering  smile  on  her  wayward  track. 


10 


Sing  on !  we  sing  in  the  glorious  weatlier 
Till  one  steps  over  the  tiny  strand. 

So  narrow,  in  sooth,  that  still  together 
On  either  brink  we  go  hand  in  hand. 


The  beck  grows  wider,  the  hands  must  sever. 

On  either  margin,  our  songs  all  done, 
We  move  apart,  while  she  singeth  ever, 

Taking  the  course  of  the  stooping  sun. 


He  prays,  "  Come  over  "  —  I  may  not  follow ; 

I  cry,  "  Return  "  —  but  he  cannot  come  : 
We  speak,  we  laugh,  but  with  voices  hollow ; 

Our  hands  are  hanging,  our  hearts  are  numb. 


A  breathing  sigh,  a  sigh  for  answer, 
A  little  talking  of  outward  things  : 

The  careless  beck  is  a  merry  dancer. 
Keeping  sweet  time  to  the  air  she  sings. 


DIVIDED.  11 


A  little  pain  when  the  beck  grows  wider ; 

"  Cross  to  me  now  —  for  her  wavelets  swell :  " 
"  I  may  not  cross  "  —  and  the  voice  beside  her 
Faintly  reacheth,  though  heeded  well. 


No  backward  path ;  ah  !  no  returning ; 
No  second  crossing  that  ripple's  flow : 
"  Come  to  me  now,  for  the  west  is  bui'ning ; 

Come  ere  it  darkens  ;  "  —  "  Ah,  no  !  ah,  no ! " 


Then  cries  of  pain,  and  arms  outrcaching  — 
The  beck  grows  wider  and  swift  and  deep : 

Passionate  words  as  of  one  beseeching  — 

The  loud  beck  di-owus  them ;  we  walk,  and  weep. 


A  yellow  moon  in  splendor  drooping, 
A  tired  queen  with  her  state  oppressed, 

Low  by  rushes  and  swordgrass  stooping. 
Lies  she  soft  on  the  waves  at  rest. 


12 


The  desert  heavens  have  felt  her  sadness ; 

Her  earth  will  weep  her  some  dewy  tears ; 
The  wild  beck  ends  her  tune  of  gladness, 

And  goeth  stilly  as  soul  that  fears. 


We  two  walk  on  in  our  grassy  places 
On  either  marge  of  the  moonlit  flood, 

With  the  moon's  own  sadness  in  our  faces. 
Where  joy  is  withered,  blossom  and  bud. 


A  shady  freshness,  chafers  whirring, 
A  little  piping  of  leaf-hid  birds  ; 

A  flutter  of  wings,  a  fitful  stirring, 

A  cloud  to  the  eastward  snowy  as  curds. 


Bare  glassy  slopes,  where  kids  are  tethered ; 

Round  valleys  like  nests  all  ferney-lined  ; 
Hound  hills,  Avith  fluttering  tree-tops  feathered, 

Swell  high  in  their  freckled  robes  behind. 


DIVIDED.  13 

A  rose-flush  tender,  a  thrill,  a  quiver. 

"Wheu  golden  gleams  to  the  tree-tops  glide ; 
A  flashing  edge  for  the  milk-white  i-iver. 

The  beck,  a  river  — '-  with  still  sleek  tide. 


Broad  and  white,  and  polished  as  silver. 
On  she  goes  under  fruit-laden  trees  ; 

Sunk  in  leafage  cooeth  the  culver. 
And  ^plaineth  of  love's  disloyalties. 


Glitters  the  dew  and  shines  the  river, 
Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell; 

But  two  are  walking  apart  for  ever. 

And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute  farewell. 


A  braver  swell,  a  swifter  sliding  ; 

The  river  hasteth,  her  banks  recede  : 
Wing-like  sails  on  her  bosom  gliding 

Bear  down  the  lily  and  drown  the  reed. 


14 


Stately  prows  are  rising  and  bowing 
(Shouts  of  mariners  winnow  the  air), 

And  level  sands  for  banks  endowing 

The  tiny  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair. 


While,  O  my  heart !  as  white  sails  shiver, 
And  crowds  are  passing,  and  banks  stretch  wide. 

How  hard  to  follow,  with  lips  that  quiver, 
That  moving  speck  on  the  far-off  side  ! 


Farther,  farther  —  I  see  it  —  know  it  — 
My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away : 

Only  my  heart  to  my  heart  shall  show  it 
As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. 


vm. 

And  yet  I  know  past  all  doubting,  truly  — 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can  dim  — 

I  knoAV,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  mc  duly  — 
Yea,  better  —  e''eu  better  than  I  love  him. 


DrV'IDED.  15 

And  as  I  walk  by  the  vast  calm  river, 

The  awful  river  so  dread  to  sec, 
I  say,  "  Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth  for  ever 

Are  bridged  by  his  thoughts  that  cross  to  me." 


1« 


HONORS.  — PART  1. 


A  Scholar  is  musing  on  Jiis  Want  of  Success. 


0  strive  —  and  fail.      Yes,   I  did 
strive  and  fail, 
I  set  mine  eyes  upon  a  certain  night 
To  find  a  certain  star  —  and  could 
not  hail 
With  them  its  deep-set  light. 


Fool  til  at  T  iras  !    I  will  rehearse  my  fault : 
I,  wingless,  thought  myself  on  high  to  lift 
Among  the  winged  —  I  set  these  feet  that  halt 
To  nm  against  the  swift. 


And  yet  this  man,  that  loved  me  so,  ran  write  — 

That  loves  me,  I  tcould  say,  can  let  me  see ; 
Oj^ain  wotdd  have  me  think  he  counts  bid  light 
These  Honors  lost  to  me. 


HONORS.  17 

IThc  Letter  of  Jiis  Friend.} 
*'  What  are  they  ?  that  old  house  of  yours  which  gave 
Such  welcomes  oft  to  me,  the  sunbeams  fall 
Still,  down  the  squares  of  blue  and  white  which  pave 
Its  hospitable  hall. 

"  A  brave  old  house  !  a  garden  full  of  bees. 

Large  dropping  poppies,  and  queen  hollyhocks, 
With  buttei-flies  for  crowns  —  tree  peonies 
And  pinks  and  goldilocks. 

".Go,  when  the  shadow  of  your  house  is  long 

Upon  the  garden  —  when  some  new-waked  bird, 
Pecking  and  fluttering,  chii-ps  a  sudden  song. 
And  not  a  leaf  is  stirred ; 

''  But  every  one  drops  dew  from  either  edge 
Upon  its  fellow,  while  an  amber  ray 
Slants  up  among  the  tree-tops  like  a  wedge 
Of  liquid  gold  —  to  play 

"  Over  and  under  them,  and  so  to  fall 

Upon  that  lane  of  water  lying  below  — 
That  piece  of  sky  let  in,  that  you  do  call 
A  pond,  but  which  I  know 


18  HONORS. 

"  To  be  a  deep  and  wondrous  world  ;  for  I 

Have  seen  the  trees  within  it  —  marvellous  things ; 
So  thick  no  bird  betwixt  their  leaves  could  fly 
But  she  would  smite  her  wings ;  — 

*'  Go  there,  I  say  ;  stand  at  the  water's  brink, 
And  shoals  of  spotted  grayling  you  shall  see 
Basking  between  the  shadows  —  look,  and  think 
'  This  beauty  is  for  me  ; 

"  '  For  me  this  freshness  in  the  morning  hours ; 
For  me  the  water's  clear  tranquillity ; 
For  me  that  soft  descent  of  chestnut  flowers ; 
The  cushat's  cry  for  me. 

"  '  The  lovely  laughter  of  the  wind-swayed  wheat; 
The  easy  slope  of  yonder  pastoral  hill; 
The  sedgy  brook  whereby  the  red  kine  meet 
And  wade  and  drink  their  fill.' 

"  Then  saimter  down  that  terrace  whence  the  sea 
All  fair  with  wing-like  sails  you  may  discern ; 
Be  glad,  and  say  '  This  beauty  is  for  me  — 
A  thing  to  love  and  learn. 


19 


"  *  For  me  the  bounding  in  of  tides  ;  for  me 
The  laying  bare  of  sands  when  they  retreat ; 
The  purple  flush  of  calms,  the  sparkling  glee 
When  waves  and  sunshine  meet.' 

"  So,  after  gazing,  homeward  turn,  and  mount 
To  that  long  chamber  in  the  roof;  there  tell 
Your  heart  the  laid-up  lore  it  holds  to  count 
And  prize  and  ponder  well. 

"The  lookings  onward  of  the  race  before 
It  had  a  past  to  make  it  look  behind ; 
Its  reverent  wonders,  and  its  doublings  sore. 
Its  adorations  blind. 

*'  The  thunder  of  its  war-songs,  and  the  glow 
Of  chants  to  freedom  by  the  old  world  sung ; 
The  sweet  love  cadences  that  long  ago 

Dropped  from  the  old-world  tongue. 

"And  then  this  new-world  lore  that  takes  account 
Of  tangled  star-dust;  maps  the  triple  whirl 
Of  blue  and  red  and  argent  worlds  that  mount 
And  greet  the  Iuish  Eaiil  ; 


20  HONORS'. 

"  Or  float  across  the  tube  that  Hersciiel  sways, 
Like  pale-rose  chaplets,  or  like  sapphire  mist; 
Or  hang  or  droop  along  the  heavenly  ways. 
Like  scarfs  of  amethyst. 

"  O  strange  it  is  and  wide  the  new-world  lore. 
For  next  it  treateth  of  our  native  dust ! 
Must  dig  out  buried  monsters,  and  explore 
The  green  earth's  fruitful  crust ; 

"  Must  write  the  story  of  her  seething  youth  — 
How  lizards  paddled  in  her  lukewarm  seas ; 
Must  show  the  cones  she  ripened,  and  forsooth 
Count  seasons  on  her  trees ; 

"  Must  know  her  weight,  and  pry  into  her  age, 
Count  her  old  beach  lines  by  their  tidal  swell ; 
Her  sunken  mountains  name,  her  craters  gauge, 
Her  cold  volcanoes  tell ; 

*'  And  treat  her  as  a  ball,  that  one  might  pass 
From  this  hand  to  the  other  —  such  a  ball 
As  he  coulil  measure  with  a  blade  of  grass, 
And  say  it  was  but  small ! 


21 


"  Honors  !     O  friend,  I  pray  you  bear  witli  me  : 
The  grass  hath  time  to  grow  in  meadow  lands. 
And  leisurely  the  opal  murmuring  sea 
Breaks  on  her  yellow  sands ; 

"And  leisurely  the  ring-dove  on  her  nest 

Brooils  till  her  tender  chick  will  peck  the  shell; 
And  leisurely  down  fall  from  ferny  crest 
The  dew-drops  on  the  well ; 

"  And  leisurely  your  life  and  spirit  grew, 

AVith  yet  the  time  to  grow  and  ripen  free : 
Xo  judgment  past  withdraws  that  boon  from  you, 
Nor  granteth  it  to  me. 

*'  Still  must  I  plod,  and  still  in  cities  moil ; 
From  precious  leisure,  learned  leisure  Hir, 
Dull  my  best  self  with  handling  common  soil; 
Yet  mine  those  honors  are. 

"  Mine  thoy  are  called ;  they  are  a  name  which  means, 
'  This  man  had  steady  pulses,  tranquil  nerves ; 
Here,  as  in  other  fields,  the  most  he  gleans 
Who  works  and  never  swerves. 


22  HONORS. 

* '  '  We  measure  not  his  mind  ;  we  cannot  tell 
AVbat  lietb  under,  over,  or  beside 
The  test  we  put  him  to  ;  he  doth  excel 
We  know,  where  he  is  tried ; 

"  '  But,  if  be  boast  some  further  excellence  — 
Mind  to  create  as  well  as  to  attain  ; 
To  sway  his  peers  by  golden  eloquence, 
As  wind  doth  shift  a  fane  ; 

"  '  To  sing  among  the  poets  —  we  are  nought: 
We  cannot  drop  41  line  into  that  sea 
And  read  its  fathoms  off,  nor  gauge  a  thought, 
Nor  map  a  simile. 

"  '  It  may  be  of  all  voices  sublunar 

The  only  one  he  echoes  we  did  try ; 
We  may  have  come  upon  the  onl}'  star 
That  twinkles  in  his  sky.' 

"  And  so  it  Avas  with  me." 

0 false  my  friend! 
False,  false,  a  random  charge,  a  blame  undue; 
Wrest  not  fair  reasoning  to  a  crooked  end: 
False,  false,  as  you  are  true ! 


23 


But  Tread  on  :  "And  so  it  was  with  me ; 
Your  golden  constellations  lying  apart 
They  neithei-  bailed  nor  greeted  heartily, 
Nor  noted  on  their  chart. 

"  And  yet  to  you  and  not  to  me  belong 

Those  finer  instincts  that,  like  second  sight 
And  hearing,  catch  creation's  undersong, 
And  see  by  inner  light. 

*'  You  are  a  well,  whereon  I,  gazing,  see 

Reflections  of  the  upper  heavens  —  a  well 
From  whence  come  deep,  deep  echoes  up  to  me  — 
Some  underwave's  low  swell. 

*'  I  cannot  soar  into  the  heights  you  show, 

Nor  dive  among  the  deeps  that  you  reveal ; 
But  it  is  much  that  high  things  are  to  know, 
That  deep  things  are  to  feel. 

"  'Tis  yours,  not  mine,  to  pluck  out  of  your  breast 
Some  human  truth,  whose  workings  recondite 
Were  unattired  in  words,  and  manifest 
And  hold  it  forth  to  light, 


24 


"  And  cry,  '  Behold  this  thing  that  I  have  found,' 
And  though  they  knew  not  of  it  till  that  day, 
Nor  should  have  done  with  no  man  to  expound 
Its  meaning,  yet  they  say, 

*' '  We  do  accept  it :  lower  than  the  shoals 
We  skim,  this  diver  went,  nor  did  create, 
But  find  it  for  us  deeper  in  our  souls 
Than  we  can  penetrate.' 

"  You  were  to  me  the  world's  interpreter. 

The  man  that  taught  me  Nature's  unknown  tongue. 
And  to  the  notes  of  her  wild  dulcimer 
First  set  sweet  words  and  sung 

"  And  wliat  am  I  to  you  ?     A  steady  hand 
To  hold,  a  steadfast  heart  to  trust  withal; 
Merely  a  man  that  loves  you,  and  will  stand 
By  you,  whate'er  befall. 

"  But  need  we  praise  his  tendance  tutelar 

Who  feeds  a  llame  that  warms  him  ?    Yet  'tis  true 
I  love  you  for  tlu;  sake  of  wliat  you  arc. 
And  not  of  what  you  do  :  — 


25 


"As  heaven's  high  twins,  whereof  in  Tyrian  bhie 
The  one  revolveth ;  tlirough  his  course  immense 
Might  love  his  fellow  of  the  damask  hue, 
For  like,  and  dilference. 

"  For  different  patliways  ever  more  decreed 
To  intersect,  but  not  to  interl'ere  5 
For  common  goal,  two  aspects,  and  one  speed. 
One  centre  and  one  year ; 

"  For  deep  affinities,  for  drawings  strong. 

That  by  their  nature  each  must  needs  exert ; 
For  loved  alliance,  and  for  union  long. 
That  stands  before  desert. 

"And  yet  desert  makes  brighter  not  the  less, 
For  nearest  his  own  star  he  shall  not  fail 
To  think  those  rays  unmatched  for  nobleness. 
That  distance  counts  but  pale. 

"  Be  pale  afar,  since  still  to  me  you  shine, 

And  must  while  Nature's  eldest  law  shall  hold  ; "  — 
Ah,  there's  the  tJtought  trliich  makes  his  random  line 
Bear  as  rejincd  gold! 


26  HONORS. 

Then  shall  I  drink  this  draught  of  oxymel. 

Part  sweet,  part  sharp  ?    Myself  o'erjjrized  to  know 
Is  sharp  ;  the  cause  is  sioeet,  and  truth  to  tell 
Few  iDould  that  cause  forego, 

Which  is,  that  this  of  all  the  men  on  earth 

Doth  love  me  icell  enough  to  count  me  great  — 
To  thinking  soid  and  his  of  equal  girth  — 

0  liberal  estimate ! 

And  yet  it  is  so ;  he  is  bound  to  me. 

For  human  love  makes  aliens  near  of  kin  ; 
By  it  I  rise,  there  is  equality  : 

1  rise  to  thee,  my  twin. 

"  Take  courage"  —  courage!  ay,  my pwple jJeer, 
I  loill  take  courage ;  for  thy  Tyrian  rays 
Refresh  me  to  the  heart,  and  strangely  dear 
And  healing  is  thy  praise. 

*'  Take  courage,"  quoth  he,  "  and  respect  the  mind 
Your  Maker  gave,  for  good  your  fate  fulfil ; 
The  fate  round  many  hearts  your  own  to  wind." 
Ihcin  sold,  I  will !  I  will ! 


HONORS.— PART  11. 


Tlie  Answer. 


2/ 


S  one  who,  journoying,  checks  the 
rein  in  haste 
Because  a  chasm  doth  yawn  across 
his  way 
Too  wide  for  leaping,  and  too  steeply 
faced 
For  climber  to  essay  — 


As  such  an  one,  being  brought  to  sudden  stand, 

Doubts  all  his  foregone  path  if  'twere  the  true, 
And  turns  to  this  and  then  to  the  other  hand 
.   As  knowing  not  what  to  do,  — 


So  I,  being  checked,  am  with  my  path  at  strife 

Which  led  to  such  a  chasm,  and  there  doth  end. 
False  path !  it  cost  me  priceless  years  of  life, 
My  well-beloved  friend. 


28  HONORS. 

There  fell  a  flute  when  Ganymede  went  up  — 

The  flute  that  he  was  wont  to  play  upon : 
It  dropped  beside  the  jonquil's  milk-white  cup, 
And  freckled  cowslips  wan  — 

Dropped  from  his  heedless  hand  when,  dazed  and 
mute, 
He  sailed  upon  the  eagle's  quivering  wing, 
Aspiring,  panting  —  ay,  it  di-opped  —  the  flute 
Erewhile  a  cherished  thing. 

Among  the  delicate  grasses  and  the  bells 

Of  crocuses  that  spotted  a  rill  side, 
I  picked  up  such  a  flute,  and  its  clear  swells 
To  my  young  lips  replied. 

I  played  thereon,  and  its  response  was  sweet ; 

But,  lo,  they  took  fi-om  me  that  solacing  reed. 
"  O  shame  !  "  they  said  ;  "  such  music  is  not  meet; 
Go  up  like  Ganymede. 

"Go  up,  despise  these  humble  grassy  things, 

Sit  on  the  golden  edge  of  yonder  cloud." 

Alas  !  though  ne'er  for  me  those  eagle  wings 

Stooped  from  their  eyrie  proud. 


UOKORS.  29 

My  flute  !  and  flung  away  its  echoes  sleep  ; 
But  as  for  mc,  my  life-pulse  beateth  low; 
And  like  a  last-year's  leaf  euslirouded  deep 
Under  the  drifting  snow, 

Or  like  some  vessel  wrecked  upon  the  sand 

Of  torrid  SAvamps,  with  all  her  merchandise. 
And  left  to  rot  betwixt  the  sea  and  land, 
My  helpless  spirit  lies. 

Ruing,  I  think  for  what  then  was  I  made  ; 

What  end  appointed  for  —  what  use  designed  ? 
Now  let  me  right  this  heart  that  Avas  bewi'ayed  — 
Unveil  these  eyes  gone  blind. 

My  well-beloved  fi'iend,  at  noon  to-day 

Over  our  cliffs  a  white  mist  lay  unfurled. 
So  thick,  one  standing  on  their  brink  might  say, 
Lo,  here  doth  end  the  world. 

A  white  abyss  beneath,  and  nought  beside ; 

Yet,  hark !  a  cropping  sound  not  ten  feet  down : 
Soon  I  could  trace  some  browsing  lambs  that  hied 
Througli  rock-paths  cleft  and  broAvn. 


30  HONORS. 

And  here   and   there   green  tufls   of  grass    peered 
through, 
Salt  lavender,  and  sea  thrift ;  then  behold, 
The  mist,  subsiding  ever,  bared  to  view 
A  beast  of  giant  mould. 

She  seemed  a  great  sea  monster  lying  content 

With  all  her  cubs  about  her :  but  deep  —  deep  — 
The  subtile  mist  went  floating  ;  its  descent 
Showed  the  world's  end  was  steep. 

It  shook,  It  melted,  shaking  more,  till,  lo. 

The  sprawling  monster  was  a  rock  ;  her  brood 
Were  boulders,  whereon  seamews  white  as  snow 
Sat  watching  for  their  food. 

Then  once  again  It  sank,  Its  day  was  done : 
Part  rolled  away,  part  vanished  utterly, 
And  glimmering  softly  under  the  white  sun, 
Behold  !  a  great  white  sea. 

O  that  the  mist  which  velleth  my  To-come 

Would  so  dissolve  and  yield  unto  mine  eyes 
A  worthy  path  !     I'd  count  not  Avearisome 
Long  toil,  nor  enterprise, 


HONORS.  31 

But  strain  to  reach  it ;  ay,  with  wrestlings  stout 

And  hopes  that  even  in  the  dark  will  grow 
(Like  plants  in  dungeons,  reaching  feelers  out), 
And  ploddings  wary  and  slow. 

Is  there  such  path  already  made  to  fit 

The  measure  of  my  foot  ?     It  shall  atone 
For  much,  if  I  at  length  may  light  on  it 
And  know  it  for  mine  own. 

But  is  there  none  ?  why,  then  'tis  more  than  well : 

And  glad  at  heart  myself  will  hew  one  out, 
Let  me  be  only  sure  ;  for,  sooth  to  tell, 
The  sorest  dole  is  doubt  — 

Doubt,  a  blank  twilight  of  the  heart,  which  mars 

All  sweetest  colors  in  its  dimness  same ; 
A  soul-mist,  through  whose  rifts  familiar  stars 
Beholding,  we  misname. 

A  ripple  on  the  inner  sea,  which  shakes 

Those  images  that  on  its  breast  reposed ; 
A  fold  upon  the  wind-swayed  flag,  that  breaks 
The  motto  it  disclosed. 


32  HONORS. 

0  doubt !  O  doubt !  I  know  my  destiny ; 

I  feel  thee  fluttering  bird-like  in  my  breast ; 

1  cannot  loose,  but  I  will  sing  to  thee, 

And  flatter  thee  to  rest. 

There  is  no  certainty,  "  my  bosom's  guest," 

No  proving  for  the  things  whereof  ye  wot ; 
For,  like  the  dead  to  sight  unmanifest,    - 
They  are,  and  they  are  not. 

But  surely  as  they  are,  for  God  is  truth, 

And  as  they  are  not,  for  we  saw  them  die, 
So  surely  from  the  heaven  drops  light  for  youth. 
If  youth  will  walk  thereby. 

And  can  I  see  this  light  ?     It  may  be  so  ; 

*'  But  see  it  thus  and  thus,"  my  fathers  said. 
The  living  do  not  rule  this  world  ;  ah,  no  ! 
It  is  the  dead,  the  dead. 

Shall  I  be  slave  to  every  noble  soul. 

Study  the  dead,  and  to  their  spirits  bend ; 
Or  learn  to  read  my  own  heart's  folded  scroll. 
And  make  self-rule  my  end  ? 


HONORS.  33 

Thought  from  untJiout  —  O  shall  I  take  on  trust. 

And  life  from  others  modelled  steal  or  win ; 
Or  shall  I  heave  to  light,  and  clear  of  rust 
My  true  life  from  within. 

O,  let  me  be  myself  !     But  where,  O  where. 
Under  this  heap  of  precedent,  this  mound 
Of  customs,  modes,  and  maxims,  cumbrance  rare, 
ShaU  the  Myself  be  found  ? 

O  thou  Myself,  thy  fathers  thee  debarred 

None  of  their  wisdom,  but  their  folly  came 
Therewith ;  they  smoothed  thy  path,  but  made  it  hard 
For  thee  to  quit  the  same. 

With  glosses  they  obscured  God's  natural  truth. 

And  with  tradition  tarnished  His  revealed ; 
"With  vain  protections  they  endangered  youth. 
With  layings  bare  they  sealed. 

What  aileth  thee,  myself  ?     Alas  !  thy  hands 
Are  tired  with  old  opinions  —  heir  and  son, 
Thou  hast  inherited  thy  father's  lands 
And  all  his  debts  thereon. 
3 


34 


O  that  some  power  would  give  me  Adam's  eyes ! 

O  for  the  straight  simplicity  of  Eve  ! 
For  I  see  nought,  or  grow,  poor  fool,  too  wise 
With  seeing  to  believe. 

Exemplars  may  be  heaped  until  they  hide 

The  rules  that  they  were  made  to  render  plain; 
Love  may  be  watched,  her  nature  to  decide, 
Until  love's  self  doth  wane. 

Ah  me  !  and  when  forgotten  and  foregone 
We  leave  the  learning  of  departed  days. 
And  cease  the  generations  past  to  con. 
Their  wisdom  and  their  ways  — 

When  fain  to  learn  we  lean  into  the  dark. 

And  grope  to  feel  the  floor  of  the  abyss. 

Or  find  the  secret  boundary  lines  which  mark 

Where  soul  and  matter  kiss  — 

Fair  world  !  these  puzzled  souls  of  ours  grow  weak 
With  beating  their  bruised  wings  against  the  rim 
That  bounds  their  utmost  flying,  when  they  seek 
The  distant  and  the  dim. 


I 


HONORS.  35 

We  pant,  we  strain  like  birds  against  tlieir  wires ; 

Are  sick  to  reach  the  vast  and  the  beyond ;  — 
And  what  avails,  if  still  to  our  desires 
Those  far-off  gulfs  respond  ? 

Contentment  comes  not  therefore  ;  still  there  lies 

An  outer  distahce  when  the  first  is  hailed. 
And  stUl  for  ever  yawns  before  our  eyes 
An  UTMOST  —  that  is  veiled. 

Searching  those  edges  of  the  universe, 

We  leave  the  central  fields  a  fallow  part ; 

To  feed  the  eye  more  precious  things  amerce. 

And  starve  the  darkened  heart. 

Then  all  goes  wrong :  the  old  foundations  rock ; 
One  scorns  at  him  of  old  who  gazed  unshod ; 
One  striking  with  a  pickaxe  thinks  the  shock 
Shall  move  the  seat  of  God. 

A  little  way,  a  very  little  way 

(Life  is  so  short) ,  they  dig  into  the  rind, 
And. they  are  very  sorry,  so  they  say, — 
Sorry  for  what  they  find. 


36  HONORS. 

But  truth  is  sacred  —  ay,  and  must  be  told : 

There  is  a  story  long  beloved  of  man ; 
We  must  forego  it,  for  it  will  not  hold  — 
Nature  had  no  such  plan. 

And  then,  "  if  God  hath  said  it,"  some  should  cry, 

' '  We  have  the  story  from  the  fountain-head :  " 
Why,  then,  what  better  than  the  old  reply. 
The  first  "  Yea,  hath  God  said  ?  " 

The  garden,  O  the  garden,  must  it  go, 

Source  of  our  hope  and  our  most  dear  regret  ? 
The  ancient  story,  must  it  no  more  show 
How  men  may  win  it  yet  ? 

And  all  upon  the  Titan  child's  decree, 

The  baby  science,  born  but  yesterday, 
That  in  its  rash  unlearned  infancy 

With  shells  and  stones  at  play, 

And  delving  in  the  outworks  of  this  world, 

And  little  crevices  that  it  could  reach. 
Discovered  certain  bones  laid  up,  and  furled 
Under  an  ancient  beach. 


HOKOR8.  37 

And  other  waifs  that  lay  to  its  young  mind 

Some  fathoms  lower  than  they  ought  to  lie, 
By  gain  whereof  it  could  not  fail  to  find 
Much  proof  of  ancientry, 

Hints  at  a  pedigree  withdrawn  and  vast, 

Terrible  deeps,  and  old  obscurities. 
Or  soulless  origin,  and  twilight  passed 
In  the  primeval  seas, 

Whereof  it  tells,  as  thinking  it  hath  been 
Of  truth  not  meant  for  man  inheritor ; 
As  if  this  knowledge  Heaven  had  ne'er  foreseen 
And  not  provided  for ! 

Knowledge  ordained  to  live  !  although  the  fate 

Of  much  that  went  before  it  was  —  to  die. 
And  be  called  ignorance  by  such  as  wait 
Till  the  next  drift  comes  by. 

O  marvellous  credulity  of  man  ! 

If  God  indeed  kept  secret,  couldst  thou  know 
Or  follow  up  the  mighty  Artisan 
Unless  He  willed  it  so  ? 


38  HONOES. 

And  canst  thou  of  the  Maker  think  in  sooth 

That  of  the  Made  He  shall  be  found  at  fault. 
And  dream  of  wresting  from  Him  hidden  truth 
By  force  or  by  assault  ? 

But  if  He  keeps  not  secret  —  if  thine  eyes 

He  openeth  to  His  wondrous  work  of  late  — . 
Think  how  in  soberness  thy  wisdom  lies, 
And  have  the  grace  to  wait. 

Wait,  nor  against  the  half-learned  lesson  fret. 

Nor  chide  at  old  belief  as  if  it  erred, 
Because  thou  canst  not  reconcile  as  yet 
The  Worker  and  the  word. 

Either  the  Worker  did  in  ancient  days 

Give  us  the  word.  His  tale  of  love  and  might ; 
(And  if  in  truth  He  gave  it  us,  who  says 
He  did  not  give  it  right  ?) 

Or  else  He  gave  it  not,  and  then  indeed 

We  know  not  if  He  is  —  by  whom  our  years 
Are  portioned,  who  the  orphan  moons  doth  lead. 
And  the  unfathered  spheres. 


HONORS.  39 

We  sit  unowned  upon  our  burial  sod, 

And  know  not  whence  we  come  or  whose  we  be, 
Comfortless  mourners  for  the  mount  of  God, 
The  rocks  of  Calvary : 

Bereft  of  heaven,  and  of  the  long-loved  page 

Wrought  us  by  some  who  thought  with  death  to 
cope ; 
Despairing  comforters,  from  age  to  age 
Sowing  the  seeds  of  hope  : 

Gracious  deceivers,  who  have  lifted  us 

Out  of  the  slough  where  passed  our  unknown  youth ; 
Beneficent  liars,  who  have  gifted  us 
With  sacred  love  of  truth ! 

Farewell  to  them :  yet  pause  ere  thou  unmoor 

And  set  thine  ark  adrift  on  unknown  seas ; 
How  wert  thou  bettei-ed  so,  or  more  secure 
Thou,  and  thy  destinies  ? 

And  if  thou  searchest,  and  art  made  to  fear 

Facing  of  unread  riddles  dark  and  hard. 
And  mastering  not  their  majesty  austere. 
Their  meaning  locked  and  barred : 


40  HONORS. 

How  would  it  make  the  weight  and  wonder  less. 

If,  lifted  from  immortal  shoulders  down. 
The  worlds  were  cast  on  seas  of  emptiness 
In  realms  without  a  crown, 

And  (if  there  were  no  God)  were  left  to  rue 

Dominion  of  the  air  and  of  the  fire  ? 
Then  if  thej-e  be  a  God,  "  Let  God  be  true. 
And  every  man  a  liar." 

But  as  for  me,  I  do  not  speak  as  one 

That  is  exempt :  I  am  with  life  at  feud : 
My  heart  reproacheth  me,  as  there  were  none 
Of  so  small  gratitude. 

Wherewith  shall  I  console  thee,  heart  o'  mine. 

And  still  thy  yearning  and  resolve  thy  doubt? 
That  which  I  know,  and  that  which  I  divine, 
Alas  !  have  left  thee  out. 

I  have  aspired  to  know  the  might  of  God, 
As  if  the  story  of  His  love  was  furled. 
Nor  sacred  foot  the  grasses  e'er  liad  trod 
Of  this  redeemed  world :  — 


HONORS.  41 

Have  sunk  my  thoughts  as  lead  into  the  deep. 

To  grope  for  that  abyss  whence  evil  grew, 
And  spirits  of  ill,  with  eyes  that  cannot  weep. 
Hungry  and  desolate  flew  ; 

As  if  their  legions  did  not  one  day  crowd 

The  death-pangs  of  the  Conquering  Good  to  see ! 
As  if  a  sacred  head  had  never  bowed 
In  death  for  man  —  for  me ; 

Nor  ransomed  back  the  souls  beloved,  the  sons 
Of  men,  from  thraldom  with  the  nether  kings 
In  that  dark  country  where  those  evil  ones 
Trail  their  unhallowed  wings. 

And  didst  Thou  love  the  race  that  loved  not  Thee, 
And  didst  Thou  take  to  heaven  a  human  brow  ? 
Dost  plead  with  man''s  voice  by  the  marvellous  sea  ? 
Art  Thou  his  kinsman  now  ? 

O  God,  O  kinsman  loved,  but  not  enough ! 

O  man,  with  eyes  majestic  after  death. 
Whose  feet  have  toiled  along  our  pathways  rough. 
Whose  lips  drawn  human  breath  ! 


42  HONORS, 

By  that  One  likeness  -which  is  ours  and  Thine, 
By  that  one  nature  which  doth  hold  us  kin, 
By  that  high  heaven  where,  sinless,  Thou  dost  shine 
To  draw  us  sinners  in, 

By  Thy  last  silence  in  the  judgment-hall. 

By  long  foreknowledge  of  the  deadly  tree, 
By  darkness,  by  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
I  pray  Thee  visit  me. 

Come,  lest  this  heart  should,  cold  and  cast  away. 

Die  ere  the  guest  adored  she  entertain  — 

Lest  eyes  which  never  saw  Thine  earthly  day 

Should  miss  Thy  heavenly  reign. 

Come  weary-eyed  from  seeking  in  the  night 

Thy  wanderers  strayed  upon  the  pathless  wold, 
Who  wounded,  dying,  cry  to  Thee  for  light, 
And  cannot  find  their  fold. 

And  deign,  O  Watcher,  with  the  sleepless  brow. 

Pathetic  in  its  yearning  —  deign  reply : 

Is  there,  O  is  there  aught  that  such  as  Thou 

Wouldst  take  from  such  as  I  ? 


HONORS.  43 

Are  there  no  briars  across  Thy  pathway  thrust? 

Are  there  no  thorns  that  compass  it  about  ? 
Nor  any  stones  that  Thou  wilt  deign  to  trust 
My  hands  to  gather  out  ? 

O,  if  Thou  wilt,  and  if  such  bliss  might  be, 
It  were  a  cure  for  doubt,  regret,  delay  — 
Let  my  lost  pathway  go  —  what  aileth  me  ?  — 
There  is  a  better  way. 

What  though  unmarked  the  happy  workman  toil. 

And  break  unthanked  of  man  the  stubborn  clod  ? 
It  is  enough,  for  sacred  is  the  soil, 
Dear  are  the  hills  of  God. 

Far  better  in  its  place  the  lowliest  bird 

Should  sing  aright  to  Him  the  lowliest  song, 
Than  that  a  seraph  strayed  should  take  the  word 
And  sing  His  glory  wrong. 

Friend,  it  is  time  to  work.     I  say  to  thee. 

Thou  dost  all  earthly  good  by  much  excel ; 
Thou  and  God's  blessing  are  enough  for  me : 
My  work,  my  work  —  farewell ! 


44 


REQUIESCAT  m  PACE! 


r]  MY  heart,  my  heart  is  sick  awishing 
and  awaiting : 
The  lad   took  up  his  knapsack, 
he  went,  he  went  his  way ; 
And  I  looked  on  for  his  coming,  as 
a  prisoner  through  the  grating 
Looks  and  longs  and  longs  and  wishes  for  its  open- 
ing day. 


On  the  wild  purple  mountains,  all  alone  with  no  other, 

The  strong  terrible  mountains,  he  longed,  he  longed 

to  be ; 

And  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  father,  and  he  stooped  to 

kiss  his  mother, 

And  till  I  said  "Adieu,  sweet  Sii',"  he  quite  forgot 


EEQUIESCAT  IN   PACE  !  45 

He  wrote  of  their  white  raiment,  the  ghostly  capes 
that  screen  them, 
Of  the  storm  winds  that  beat  them,  their  thunder- 
rents  and  scars, 
And  the  paradise  of  purple,  and   the  golden  slopes 
atween  them. 
And  fields,  where  grow  God's  gentian  bells,  and  His 
crocus  stars. 


He  wrote  of  frail  gauzy  clouds,  that  drop  on  them  like 
fleeces. 
And  make  green  their  fir  forests,   and  feed  their 
mosses  hoar; 
Or  come  sailing  up  the  valleys,  and  get  wrecked  and 
go  to  pieces. 
Like  sloops  against  their  cruel  strength :   then  he 
wrote  no  more. 


O  the  silence  that  came  next,  the  patience  and  long 
aching ! 
They  never  said  so  much  as  ' '  He  was  a  dear  loved 
son ; " 


46  REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE  ! 

Not  the  father  to  the  mother  moaned,  that  dreary  still- 
ness breaking : 
"Ah!  wherefore  did  he  leave  us  so  —  this,  our  only 


They  sat  within,  as  waiting,  until  the  neighbors  prayed 
them. 
At  Cromer,   by   the    sea-coast,    'twere   peace   and 
change  to  be ; 
And  to  Cromer,  in  their  patience,  or  that  urgency 
affrayed  them, 
Or  because  the  tidings  tarried,  they  came,  and  took 
me. 

It  was  three  months  and  over  since  the  dear  lad  had 
started : 
On  the  green  downs  at  Cromer  I  sat  to  see  the  view ; 
On  an  open  space  of  herbage,  where  the  ling  and  fern 
had  parted. 
Betwixt  the  tall  white  lighthouse  towers,  the  old  and 
the  new. 

Below  me  lay  the  wide  sea,  the  scarlet  sun  was  stooping, 
And  he  dyed  the  waste  water,  as  with  a  scarlet  dye ; 


REQUIESCAT   IN   PACE  !  47 

And  he  dyed  the  lighthouse  towers ;  every  bird  with 
white  wing  swooping 
Took  his  colors,  and  the  cliifs  did,  and  the  yawning 
eky. 

Over  grass  came  that  strange  flush,  and  over  ling  and 
heather, 
Over  flocks  of  sheep  and  lambs,  and  over  Cromer 
town ; 
And  each  filmy  cloudlet  crossing  drifted  like  a  scarlet 
feather 
Torn  from  the  folded  wings  of  clouds,  while  he  set- 
tled down. 

When  I  looked,  I  dared  not  sigh :  —  In  the  light  of 
God's  splendor, 
With  His  daily  blue  and  gold,  who  am  I  ?  what  am  I  ? 
But  that  passion  and  outpouring  seemed  an  awful  sign 
and  tender. 
Like  the  blood  of  the  Redeemer,  shown  on  earth  and 
sky. 

0  for  comfort,  O  the  waste  of  a  long  doubt  and  trouble ! 
On  that  sultry  August  eve  trouble  had  made  me 
meek; 


48  REQtJIESCAT   IN   PACE  ! 

I  was  tired  of  my  sorrow  —  O   so   fliint,  for  it  was 
double 
In  the  weight  of  its  oppression,  that  I  could  not 
speak ! 

And  a  little  comfort  grew,  while  the  dimmed  eyes 

were   feeding, 

And  the  dull  ears  with  murmur  of  waters  satisfied ; 

But  a  dream  came  slowly  nigh  me,  all  my  thoughts 

and  fancy  leading 

Across  the  bounds  of  waking  life  to  the  other  side. 

And  I  dreamt  that  I  looked  out,  to  the  waste  waters 
turning, 
And  saw  the  flakes  of  scarlet  from  wave  to  wave 
tossed  on ; 
And  the  scarlet  mix  with  azure,  where  a  heap  of  gold 
lay  burning 
On  the  clear  remote  sea  reaches ;  for  the  sun  was 
gone. 

Then  I  thought  a  far-off  shout  dropped  across  the  still 
water  — 
A  question  as  I  took  it,  for  soon  an  answer  came 


I 


KEQUIESCAT   IN   PACK  !  49 

From  the  tall  white  ruined  lighthouse:   '' W  it  be  the 
old  man's  daughter 
That  we  wot  of,"  ran  the  answer,  ' '  what  then  — 
who's  to  blame  ?  " 


I  looked  up  at  the  lighthouse  all  roofless  and  storm- 
broken  : 
A  great  white  bird  sat  on  it,  with  neck  stretched 
to  sea ; 
Unto  somewhat  which  was  sailing  in  a  skiflf  the  bird 
had  spoken. 
And  a  trembling  seized  my  spirit,  for  they  talked 
of  me. 


t  was  the  old  man's  daughter,  the  bird  Went  on  to 
name  him ; 
"He  loved  to  count  the  starlings  as  he  sat  in  the 
sun ; 
Long  ago  he  served  with  Nelson,  and  his  story  did  not 
shame  him : 
Ay,  the  old  man  was  a  good  man  —  and  his  work 
was  done." 

4 


50  KEQUIESCAT   IN   PACE  ! 

The  skiff  was  like  a  crescent,  ghost  of  some  moon 
departed. 
Frail,  white,  she  rocked  and  curtseyed  as  the  red 
wave  she  crossed. 
And  the  thing  within  sat  paddling,  and  the  crescent 
dipped  and  darted. 
Flying  on,  again  was  shouting,  but  the  words  were 
lost. 


I  said,  "  That  thing  is  hooded;  I  could  hear  but  that 
floweth 
The  great  hood  below  its  mouth : "  then  the  bird 
made  reply, 
"  If  they  know  not,  more's  the  pity,  for  the   little 
shrewmouse  knoweth. 
And  the  kite  knows,  and  the  eagle,  and  the  glead 
and  pye." 


And  he  stooped  to  whet  his  beak  on  the  stones  of  the 
coping ; 
And  when  once  more  the  shout  came,  in  querulous 
tones  he  spake, 


EEQUIESCAT  IN  PACE  !  51 

"  What  I  said  was  '  more's  the  pity ; '  if  the  heart 
be  long  past  hoping, 
Let  it  say  of  death,  '  1  know  it,'  or  doubt  on  and 
break. 


"Men  must  die  —  one   dies  by  day,  and  near  hira 
moans  his  mother. 
They  dig  his  grave,  tread  it  down,  and  go  from  it 
full  loth : 
And  one  dies  about  the  midnight,  and  the  wind  moans, 
and  no  other. 
And  the  snows  give  him  a  burial  —  and  God  loves 
them  both. 


"The  first  hath  no  advantage  —  it  shall  not  soothe  his 
slumber 
That  a  lock  of  his  brown  hair  his  father  aye  shall 
keep ; 
For  the  last,  he  nothing  grudgeth,  it  shall  nought  his 
quiet  cumber. 
That  in  a  golden  mesh  of  his  callow  eaglets  sleep. 


52  EEQUIESCAT   EST   PACE  ! 

"Men  must  die  when  all  is  said,  e'en  the  kite  and 
glead  know  it. 
And  the  lad's  father  knew  it,  and  the  lad,  the  lad  too ; 
It  was  never  kept  a  secret,  waters  bring  it  and  winds 
blow  it, 
And  he  met  it  on  the  momitain  —  why  then  make 
ado  ?  " 

With  that  he  spread  his  white  wings,  and  swept  across 
the  water, 
Lit  upon  the  hooded  head,  and  it  and  all  went  down ; 
And  they  laughed  as  they  went  imder,  and  I  woke, 
"  the  old  man's  daughter," 
And  looked  across  the  slope  of  grass,  and  at  Cro- 
mer town. 

And  I  said,   "Is  that  the  sky,  all  grey  and  silver 
suited  ?  " 
And  I  thought,   "  Is  that  the  sea  that  lies  so  white 
and  wan  ? 
I  have  dreamed  as  I  remember :  give  me  time  —  I  was 
reputed 
Once   to   have   a  steady  courage  —  O,  I  fear  'tis 
gone ! " 


REQUIESCAT   IN   PACE  I  63 

And  I  said,  " Is  this  my  heart?  if  it  be,  low  'tis  beat- 
ing. 
So  he  lies  on  the  mountain,  hard  by  the  eagles' 
bi'ood ; 
I  have  had  a  dream  this  evening,  while  the  white  and 
gold  were  fleeting. 
But  I  need  laot,  need  not  tell  it  —  where  would  be 
the  good  ? 

"  Where  would  be  the  good  to  them,  his  father  and  his 
mother  ? 
For  the  ghost  of  their  dead  hope  appeareth  to  them 
still. 
While  a  lonely  watch-fire  smoulders,  who  its  dying 
red  would  smother. 
That  gives  what  little  light  there  is  to  a  darksome 
hill?" 

I  rose  up,  I  made  no  moan,  I  did  not  cry  nor  falter. 
But  slowly  in  the  twilight  I  came  to  Cromer  town. 
What  can  wringing  of  the  hands  do   that  which  is 
ordained  to  alter  ? 
He  had  climbed,    had   climbed  the  mountain,  he 
would  ne'er  come  down. 


64  REQUIESCAT   IN    PACE  ! 

But,  O  my  first,  O  my  best,  I  could  not  choose  but 
love  thee ! 
O,  to  be  a  wild  white  bird,  and  seek  thy  rocky  bed ! 
From  my  breast  Vd  give  thee  burial,  pluck  the  down 
and  spread  above  thee  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  thy  requiem  on  the  mountain 
bead. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  love  of  loves !  would  I  had  died 
before  thee ! 
O,  to  be  at  least  a  cloud,  that  near  thee  I  might 
flow. 
Solemnly  approach  the  mountain,  weep  away  my  being 
o'er  thee. 
And  veil  thy  breast  with  icicles,  and  thy  brow  with 
snow! 


55 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


Mother. 
ELL,  Frances. 

Frances. 
Well,  good  mother,  how  are  you  ? 
M.   Tm  hearty,  lass,  but  warm ; 
the  weather's  warm : 
I  think  'tis  mostly  warm  on  market  days. 
I  met  with  George  behind  the  mill :  said  he, 
"  Mother,  go  in  and  rest  awhile." 

F.  Ay,  do, 

And  stay  to  supper ;  put  your  basket  down. 
M.  Why,  now,  it  is  not  heavy  ? 
F.  Willie,  man. 

Get  up  and  kiss  your  Granny.     Heavj%  no  ! 
Some  call  good  churning  luck  ;  but,  luck  or  skill. 
Your  butter  mostly  comes  as  firm  and  sweet 
As  if  'twas  Christmas.     So  you  sold  it  all  ? 


56  SUPPER  AT   THE   MILL. 

M.  All  but  this  pat  that  I  put  by  for  George ; 
He  always  loved  my  butter. 

F.  That  he  did. 

M.  And  has   your   speckled  hen  brought  off  her 
brood  ? 

F.  Not  yet ;  but  that  old  duck  I  told  you  of, 
She  hatched  eleven  out  of  twelve  to-day. 

Child.  And,  Granny,  they're  so  yellow. 

M.  Ay,  my  lad. 

Yellow  as  gold  —  yellow  as  Willie's  hair.  [mine. 

C.  They're  all  mine.  Granny  —  father  says  they're 

M.  To  think  of  that ! 

F.  Yes,  Granny,  only  think  ! 

Why,  father  means  to  sell  them  when  they're  fat. 
And  put  the  money  in  the  savings  bank. 
And  all  against  our  Willie  goes  to  school : 
But  Willie  would  not  touch  them  —  no,  not  he  ; 
He  knows  that  father  would  be  angry  else. 

C.  But  I  want  one  to  play  with  —  O,  I  want 
A  little  yellow  duck  to  take  to  bed  ! 

M.  What !  would  ye  rob  the  poor  old  mother,  then  ? 

F.  Now,  Granny,  if  you'll  hold  the  babe  awhile ; 
'Tis  time  I  took  up  Willie  to  his  crib. 

\_Exit  Frances- 


SUPPER   AT   THE   MILL.  57 

[Mother  sinrjs  to  the  infant.'] 
Playing  on  the  virginals, 

Who  but  I V     Sae  glad,  sae  free, 
Smelling  for  all  cordials, 

The  green  mint  and  marjorie; 
Set  among  the  budding  broom. 

Kingcup  and  daffodilly, 
By  my  side  I  made  him  room: 

O  love  my  Willie ! 

"Like  me,  love  me,  girl  o'  gowd," 

Sang  he  to  my  nimble  strain; 
Sweet  his  ruddy  lips  o'erfl'iwed 

Till  my  heartstrings  rang  again: 
By  the  broom,  the  bonny  broom. 

Kingcup  and  daffodilly, 
In  my  heart  I  made  him  room: 

O  love  my  Willie ! 

"  Pipe  and  pla}',  dear  heart,"  sang  he, 

"  I  must  go,  yet  pipe  and  play ; 
Soon  I'll  come  and  ask  of  thee 

For  an  answer  yea  or  nay  ;  " 
And  I  waited  till  the  flocks 

Panted  in  j^on  waters  stilly, 
And  the  corn  stood  in  the  shocks : 

O  love  my  Willie ! 


58  SUPPER  AT   THE   MILL. 

I  thought  first  when  thou  didst  come 

I  would  wear  the  ring  for  thee, 
But  the  year  told  out  its  sum 

Ere  again  thou  sat'st  by  nie; 
Thou  hadst  nought  to  ask  that  day 

By  kingcup  and  daffodilly; 
I  said  neither  yea  nor  nay : 

0  love  my  Willie ! 

Enter  George. 

O.  Well,  mother,  'tis  a  fortnight  now,  or  more, 
Since  I  set  eyes  on  you. 

M.  Ay,  George,  my  dear, 

I  reckon  you've  been  busy :   so  have  we. 

O.  And  how  does  father  ? 

M.  He  gets  through  his  work, 

But  he  grows  stiff,  a  little  stiff,  my  dear ; 
He's  not  so  young,  you  know,  by  twenty  years, 
As  I  am  —  not  so  young  by  twenty  years. 
And  I'm  past  sixty. 

G.  Yet  he's  hale  and  stout, 

And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his  pipe ; 
And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his  cows. 
And  a  pride,  too. 

M,  And  well  he  may,  my  dear. 


SUPPER  AT   THE  MILL.  69 

O.  Give  me  the  little  one,  he  tires  your  arm ; 
He's  such  a  kicking,  crowing,  wakeful  rogue, 
He  almost  wears  our  lives  out  with  his  noise 
Just  at  day-dawning,  when  we  wish  to  sleep. 
What !  you  young  villain,  would  you  clench  your  fist 
In  father's  curls  ?  a  dusty  father,  sure, 
And  you're  as  clean  as  wax. 

Ay,  you  may  laugh  ; 
But  if  you  live  a  seven  years  more  or  so. 
These  hands  of  yours  will  all  be  brown  and  scratched 
With  climbing  after  nest-eggs.     They'll  go  down 
As  many  rat-holes  as  are  round  the  mere ; 
And  you'll  love  mud,  all  manner  of  mud  and  dirt 
As  your  father  did  afore  you,  and  you'll  wade 
After  young  water-birds  ;  and  you'll  get  hogged 
Setting  of  eel-traps,  and  you'll  spoil  your  clothes. 
And  come  home  torn  and  dripping:  then,  you  know, 
You'll  feel  the  stick  — you'll  feel  the  stick,  my  lad! 

Enier  Frances. 

F.  You  should  not  talk  so  to  the  blessed  babe  — 
How  can  you,  George  ?  why,  he  may  bo  in  heavep 
Before  the  time  you  tell  of. 

M.  Look  at  him : 


60  SUPPER  AT   THE   MIIX. 

So  earnest,  such  an  eager  pair  of  eyes  ! 
He  thrives,  my  dear. 

F.  Yes,  that  he  does,  thank  God 

My  children  are  all  strong. 

M.  'Tis  much  to  say  ; 

Sick  children  fret  their  mothers'  hearts  to  shreds. 
And  do  no  credit  to  their  keep  nor  care. 
Where  is  your  little  lass  ? 

F.  Your  daughter  came 

And  begged  her  of  us  for  a  week  or  so. 

M.  Well,  well,  she  might  be  wiser,  that  she  might, 
For  she  can  sit  at  ease  and  pay  her  way ; 
A  sober  husband,  too  —  a  cheerful  man  — 
Honest  as  ever  stepped,  and  fond  of  her; 
Yet  she  is  never  easy,  never  glad, 
Because  she  has  not  children.     Well-a-day ! 
If  she  could  know  how  hard  her  mother  worked. 
And  what  ado  I  had,  and  what  a  moil 
With  my  half-dozen  !     Children,  ay,  forsooth. 
They  bring  their  own  love  with  them  when  they  come, 
But  if  they  come  not  there  is  peace  and  rest ; 
The  pretty  lambs !  and  yet  she  cries  for  more  : 
Why,  the  world's  full  of  them,  and  so  is  heaven  — 
They  are  not  rare. 


SUPPEU   AT   THE   MILL.  61 

O.  No,  mother,  not  at  all ; 

But  Hannah  must  not  keep  our  Fanny  long  — 
She  spoils  her. 

M.  Ah  !  folks  spoil  their  children  now; 

When  I  was  a  young  woman  'twas  not  so  ; 
We  made  our  children  fear  us,  made  them  work, 
Kept  them  in  order. 

O.  Were  not  proud  of  them — 

Eh,  mother  ? 

M.  I  set  store  by  mine,  'tis  true. 

But  then  I  had  good  cause. 

G.  My  lad,  d'ye  hear  ? 

Yom-  Granny  was  not  proud,  by  no  means  proud ! 
She  never  spoilt  your  father  —  no,  not  she. 
Nor  ever  made  him  sing  at  harvest-home. 
Nor  at  the  forge,  nor  at  the  baker's  shop. 
Nor  to  the  doctor  while  she  lay  abed 
Sick,  and  he  crept  up  stairs  to  share  her  broth. 

M.  Well,  well,  you  were  my  youngest,  and,  what's 
more. 
Your  father  loved  to  hear  you  sing  —  he  did, 
Although,  good  man,  he  could  not  tell  one  tune 
From  the  other. 


62  SUPPER  AT   THE  MILL. 

F.  No,  he  got  his  voice  from  you : 
Do  use  it,  George,  and  send  the  child  to  sleep, 

G.  What  must  I  sing  ? 

F.  The  ballad  of  the  man 
That  is  so  shy  he  cannot  speak  his  mind. 

G.  Ay,  of  the  purple  grapes  and  crimson  leaves ; 
But,  mother,  put  your  shawl  and  bonnet  oiF. 

And,  Frances,  lass,  I  brought  some  cresses  in : 
Just  wash  them,  toast  the  bacon,  break  some  eggs. 
And  let's  to  supper  shortly. 

[Sings.] 

My  neighbor  White  —  we  met  to-day  — 
He  always  had  a  cheerful  way, 

As  if  he  breathed  at  ease ; 
My  neighbor  White  lives  down  the  glade, 
And  I  live  higher,  in  the  shade 

Of  my  old  walnut-trees. 

So  many  lads  and  lasses  small, 
To  feed  them  all,  to  clothe  them  all, 

Must  surely  tax  his  wit; 
I  see  his  thatch  wlien  I  look  out, 
His  branching  roses  creep  about. 

And  vines  half  smother  it. 


THE   LETTER   L.  159 

"These  for  themselves.     Content  to  give, 

In  their  own  lavish  love  complete, 
Taking  for  sole  prerogative 

Their  tendance  sweet. 

"  Such  meeting  in  their  diadem 

Of  crowning  love's  ethereal  fire, 
Himself  he  robs  who  roljbeth  them 
Of  their  desire. 

»-'  Therefore  the  man  who,  dreaming,  cried 

Against  his  lot  that  evensong, 
I  judge  him  honest,  and  decide 
That  he  was  wrong." 

"When  I  am  judged,  ah  may  my  fate," 
He  whispered,  "  in  thy  code  be  read ! 
Be  thou  both  judge  and  advocate." 
Then  turned,  he  said  — 

"  Fair  weaver  ! "  touching,  while  he  spoke, 

The  woven  crown,  the  weaving  hand, 
"And  do  you  this  decree  revoke. 
Or  may  it  stand .'' 


160  THE   LETTER   L. 

"  This  friend,  you  ever  tliink  lier  right  — 

She  is  not  wrong,  then  ?  "     Soft  and  low 
The  little  trembling  word  took  flight : 
She  answered,  "^o." 


PPiSENl. 

A  meadow  where  tVe  /^vass  was  deep. 

Rich,  square,  and  golden  to  the  view, 
A  belt  of  elms  with  level  sweep 
ALout  it  grew. 

The  sun  beat  down  on  it,  the  line  ' 

Of  shade  was  clear  beneath  the  trees ; 
There,  by  a  clustering  eglantine. 
We  sat  at  ease. 

And  O  the  buttercups  !  that  field 

O'  the  cloth  of  gold,  where  pennons  swam^ 
Where  France  set  up  his  liUed  shield. 
His  oriflamb, 


THE   LETTER   L.  161 

And  Henry's  lion-standard  rolled :  / 

What  Avas  it  to  their  matchless  sheen, 
Their  million  million  drops  of  gold 
Among  the  green ! 

We  sat  at  ease  in  peaceful  trust, 

For  he  had  written,  "  Let  us  meet ; 
My  wife  grew  tired  of  smoke  and  dust. 
And  London  heat, 

"  And  I  have  found  a  quiet  grange, 

Set  back  in  meadows  sloping  west, 
And  there  our  little  ones  can  range 
And  she  can  rest. 

"  Come  down,  that  we  may  show  the  view^ 

And  she  may  hear  your  voice  again, 
And  talk  her  woman's  talk  with  you 
Along  the  lane." 

Since  he  had  drawn  with  listless  hand 
The  letter,  six  long  years  had  fled, 
And  winds  had  blown  about  the  sand, 
And  they  were  wed. 
11 


162  THE   LETTER   L. 

Two  rosy  urchins  near  him  played, 

Or  watched,  entranced,  the  shapely  ships 
That  with  his  knife  for  them  he  made 
Of  elder  slips. 

And  where  the  flowers  were  thickest  shed, 

Each  blossom  like  a  burnished  gem, 
A  creeping  baby  reared  its  head, 
And  cooed  at  them. 

And  calm  was  on  the  father's  face, 

And  love  was  in  the  mother's  eyes  ; 
She  looked  and  listened  from  her  place, 
In  tender  wise. 

She  did  not  need  to  raise  her  voice 

That  they  might  hear,  she  sat  so  nigh ; 
Yet  we  could  speak  when  'twas  our  choice. 
And  soft  reply. 

Holding  our  quiet  talk  apart 

Of  household  things  ;  till,  all  unsealed, 
The  guarded  outworks  of  the  heart 
Began  to  yield ; 


THE   LETTER   L.  16cJ 

And  much  that  prudence  will  not  dip 

The  pen  to  fix  and  send  away, 
Passed  safely  over  from  the  lip 
That  summer  day. 

"  I  should  be  happy,"  with  a  look 

Towards  her  husband  where  he  lay. 
Lost  in  the  pages  of  his  book, 
Soft  did  she  say. 

"  I  am,  and  yet  no  lot  below 

For  one  whole  day  eludeth  care ; 
To  marriage  all  the  stories  flow. 
And  finish  there : 

"As  if  with  marriage  came  the  end, 

The  entrance  into  settled  rest, 
The  calm  to  which  love's  tossings  tend. 
The  quiet  breast. 

' '  For  me  love  played  the  low  preludes. 

Yet  life  began  but  with  the  ring. 
Such  infinite  solicitudes 
Around  it  cling. 


164  THE  LETTER   L. 

"  I  did  not  for  my  heart  divine 

Her  destiny  so  meek  to  grow  ; 
The  higher  nature  matched  with  mine 
Will  have  it  so. 

"  Still  I  consider  it,  and  still 

Acknowledge  it  my  master  made, 
Above  me  by  the  steadier  will 
Of  nought  afraid. 

"  Above  me  by  the  candid  speech ; 

The  temperate  judgment  of  its  own ; 
The  keener  thoughts  that  grasp  and  reach 
At  things  unknown. 

"  But  I  look  up  and  he  looks  down. 

And  thus  our  married  eyes  can  meet ; 
Unclouded  his,  and  clear  of  frown, 
And  gravely  sweet. 

"  And  yet,  O  good,  O  wise  and  true  ! 

I  would  for  all  my  fealty, 
That  I  could  be  as  much  to  you 
As  you  to  me  ; 


THE   LETTER   L.  165 

"  And  knew  the  deep  secure  content 

Of  wives  who  have  been  hardly  won, 
And,  long  petitioned,  gave  assent. 
Jealous  of  none. 

*'  But  proudly  sure  in  all  the  earth 
No  other  in  that  homage  shares. 
Nor  other  woinan''s  face  or  worth 
Is  prized  as  theirs." 

I  said:  *^And  yet  no  lot  below 

For  one  tchole  day  eludeth  care. 
Your  thought."     She  answered,  "Even  so. 
I  would  beware 

"  Regretful  questionings  ;  be  sure 
That  very  seldom  do  they  rise, 
Nor  for  myself  do  I  endure  — 
I  svinpathize. 

"  For  once  "  —  she  turned  away  her  head. 
Across  the  grass  she  swept  her  hand  — 
"There  was  a  letter  once,"  she  said, 
"  Upon  the  sand." 


166  THE   LETTER   L. 

•»  There  was,  in  truth,  a  letter  writ 

Oa  sand,"  I  said,  "  and  swept  from  view; 
But  that  same  hand  which  fashioned  it 
Is  given  to  you. 

' '  Efface  the  letter ;  wherefore  keep 

An  image  which  the  sands  forego  ?  " 
"  Albeit  that  fear  had  seemed  to  sleep," 
She  answered  low, 

•'  I  could  not  choose  but  wake  it  now ; 

For  do  but  turn  aside  your  face, 
A  house  on  yonder  hilly  brow 
Your  eyes  may  trace. 

"  The  chestnut  shelters  it ;  ah  me, 
That  I  should  have  so  faint  a  heart ! 
But  yestereve,  as  by  the  sea 
I  sat  apart, 

"  I  heard  a  name,  I  saw  a  hand 

Of  passing  stranger  point  that  way  — 
And  will  he  meet  her  on  the  strand. 
When  late  Ave  stray  ? 


THE   LETTER   L.  167 

"  For  she  is  come,  for  she  is  there, 
I  heard  it  in  the  dusk,  and  heard 
Admiring  words,  that  named  her  fair, 
But  little  stirred 

♦*  By  beauty  of  the  wood  and  wave, 
And  weary  of  an  old  man's  sway ; 
For  it  was  sweeter  to  enslave 
Than  to  obey." 

—  The  voice  of  one  that  near  us  stood. 

The  rustle  of  a  silken  fold, 
A  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
A  gleam  of  gold ! 

A  lady !     In  the  narrow  space 

Between  the  husband  and  the  wife. 
But  nearest  him  —  she  showed  a  face 
With  dangers  rife ; 

A  subtle  smile  that  dimpling  fled, 

As  night-black  lashes  rose  and  fell : 
I  looked,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"The  letter  L." 


168  THE   LETTER    L. 

He,  too,  looked  up,  and  with  arrest 

Of  breath  and  motion  held  his  gaze, 
Nor  cared  to  hide  within  his  breast 
His  deep  amaze ; 

Nor  spoke  till  on  her  near  advance 

His  dark  cheek  flushed  a  ruddier  hue ; 
And  with  his  change  of  countenance 
Hers  altered  too. 

"  Lenore !"  his  voice  was  like  the  cry 

Of  one  entreating ;   and  he  said 
But  that  —  then  paused  with  such  a  sigh 
As  mourns  the  dead. 

And  seated  near,  with  no  demur 

Of  bashful  doubt  she  silence  broke. 
Though  I  alone  could  answer  her 
When  first  she  spoke. 

She  looked  :  her  eyes  were  beauty's  own ; 

She  shed  their  sweetness  into  his  ; 
Nor  spared  the  married  wife  one  moan 
That  bitterest  is. 


THE   LETTER   L.  169 

She  spoke,  and  lo,  her  loveliness 

Methought  she  damaged  with  her  tongue  ; 
And  every  sentence  made  it  less, 
So  false  they  rung. 

The  rallying  voice,  the  light  demand, 

Half  flippant,  half  unsatisfied  ; 
The  vanity  sincere  and  bland  — 
The  answers  Avide. 

And  now  her  talk  was  of  the  East, 

And  next  her  talk  was  of  the  sea ; 
"And  has  the  love  for  it  increased 
You  shared  with  me  ?  " 

He  answered  not,  but  grave  and  still 

With  earnest  eyes  her  face  perused, 
And  locked  his  lips  with  steady  will, 
As  one  that  mused  — 

That  mused  and  wondered.     Why  his  gaze 

Should  dwell  on  her,  methought,  was  plain ; 
But  reason  that  should  wonder  raise 
I  soujrht  in  vain. 


170  THE   LETTER   L. 

And  near  and  near  the  children  drew, 

Attracted  by  her  rich  array, 
And  gems  that  trembling  into  view 
Like  raindrops  lay. 

He  spoke  :  the  wife  her  baby  took 

And  pressed  the  little  face  to  hers  ; 
What  pain  soe'er  her  bosom  shook, 
What  jealous  stirs 

Might  stab  her  heart,  she  hid  them  so. 

The  cooing  babe  a  veil  supplied ; 
And  if  she  listened  none  might  know. 
Or  if  she  sighed ; 

Or  if  forecasting  grief  and  care 

Unconscious  solace  thence  she  drew. 
And  lulled  her  babe,  and  unaware 
Lulled  sorrow  too. 

The  lady,  she  interpreter 

For  looks  or  language  wanted  none. 
If  yet  dominion  stayed  with  her  — 
So  lightly  won ; 


THE  LETTER   L.  171 

If  yet  tlic  heart  she  wounded  sore 

Could  yearn  to  her,  and  let  her  see 
The  homage  that  was  evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If  sign  would  yield  that  it  had  bled. 
Or  rallied  from  the  faithless  blow, 
Or  sick  or  sullen  stooped  to  wed, 
She  craved  to  know. 

Now  dreamy  deep,  now  sweetly  keen, 

Her  asking  eyes  would  round  him  shine ; 
But  guarded  lips  and  settled  mien 
Refused  the  sign. 

And  unbeguiled  and  unbet rayed. 

The  wonder  yet  within  his  breast. 
It  seemed  a  watchful  part  he  played 
Against  her  quest. 

Until  with  accent  of  regret 

She  touched  upon  the  past  once  more. 
As  if  she  dared  him  to  forget 
His  dream  of  vore. 


172  THE   LETTER   L. 

And  words  of  little  weight  let  fall 

The  fancy  of  the  lower  mind  ; 
How  waxing  life  must  needs  leave  all 
Its  best  behind ; 

HTow  he  had  said  that  "  he  would  fain 

(One  morning  on  the  halcyon  sea) 

That  life  would  at  a  stand  remain 

Eternally ; 
i 

"And  sails  be  mirrored  in  the  deep, 
As  then  they  were,  for  evermore. 
And  happy  spirits  wake  and  sleep 
Afar  from  shore : 

"  The  well-contented  heart  be  fed 
Ever  as  then,  and  all  the  world. 
(It  were  not  small)  unshadowed 
When  sails  were  furled. 

"Your  words"  —  a  pause,  and  quietly 

With  touch  of  calm  self-ridicule  : 
"  It  may  be  so  —  for  then,"  said  he, 
"  I  v/as  a  fool." 


THE   LETTER   L.  173 

With  that  he  took  his  book,  and  left 

An  awkward  silence  to  mv  care, 
That  soon  I  filled  with  questions  deft 
And  debonaii- ; 

And  slid  into  an  easy  vein. 

The  favorite  picture  of  the  year ; 
The  grouse  upon  her  lord's  domain  — 
The  salmon  weir ; 

Till  she  could  feign  a  sudden  thought 

Upon  neglected  guests,  and  rise, 
And  make  us  her  adieux,  with  nought 
In  her  dark  eyes 

Acknowledging  or  shame  or  pain ; 
But  just  unveiling  for  our  view 
A  little  smile  of  still  disdain 
As  she  withdrew. 

Then  nearer  did  the  sunshine  creep. 

And  warmer  came  the  wafting  breeze ; 
The  little  babe  was  f;ist  asleep 
On  mother's  knees. 


174  THE   LETTER   L. 

Fair  was  the  face  that  o'er  it  leant, 

The  cheeks  with  beauteous  blushes  dyed ; 
The  downcast  lashes,  shyly  bent, 
That  failed  to  hide 

Some  tender  shame.     She  did  not  see ; 
She  felt  his  eyes  that  would  not  stir. 
She  looked  upon  her  babe,  and  he 
So  looked  at  her. 

So  grave,  so  wondering,  so  content. 

As  one  new  waked  to  conscious  life. 
Whose  sudden  joy  with  fear  is  blent. 
He  said,  "  My  wife." 

"  My  wife,  how  beautiful  you  are  ! " 

Then  closer  at  her  side  reclined, 
*'  The  bold  brown  woman  from  afar 
Comes,  to  me  blind. 

"  And  by  comparison,  I  see 

The  majesty  of  matron  grace, 
And  learn  how  pure,  how  fair  can  be 
My  own  wife's  face  : 


SCHOLAR   AND   CARPENTER.  79 

ind  broader  beams  athwart  it  shot, 
Where  martins  cheeped  in  many  a  knot. 
For  they  had  ta'en  a  sandy  plot 
And  scooped  another  Petra  there. 


And  deeper  down,  hemmed  in  and  hid 
From  upper  light  and  life  amid 
The  swallows  gossiping,  I  thrid 

Its  mazes,  till  the  dipping  land 
Sank  to  the  level  of  my  lane : 
That  was  the  last  hill  of  the  chain. 
And  fair  below  I  saw  the  plain 

That  seemed  cold  cheer  to  reprimand. 


Half-drowned  in  sleepy  peace  it  lay. 
As  satiate  with  the  boundless  play 
Of  sunshine  on  its  green  array. 

And  clear-cut  hills  of  gloomy  blue 
To  keep  it  safe  rose  up  behind, 
As  with  a  charmed  ring  to  bind 
The  grassy  sea,  where  clouds  might  find 

A  place  to  bring  their  shadows  to. 


80  SCHOLAR  AND   CAKPENTER. 

I  said,  and  blest  that  pastoral  grace, 

"  How  sweet  thou  art,  thou  sunny  place  ! 

Thy  God  approves  thy  smiling  face  :  " 

But  straight  my  heart  put  in  her  word ; 
She  said,  "  Albeit  thy  face  I  bless. 
There  have  been  times,  sweet  wilderness, 
When  I  have  wished  to  love  thee  less, 

Such  pangs  thy  smile  administered." 


But,  lo  !  I  reached  a  field  of  wheat, 
And  by  its  gate  full  clear  and  sweet 
A  workman  sang,  while  at  his  feet 

Played  a  young  child,  all  life  and  stir  - 
A  three  years'  child,  with  rosy  lip. 
Who  in  the  song  had  partnershijj, 
Made  happy  with  each  falling  chip 

Dropped  by  the  busy  carpenter. 


This,  reared  a  new  gate  for  the  old. 
And  loud  the  tuneful  measure  rolled, 
But  stopped  as  I  came  up  to  hold 
Some  kindly  talk  of  passing  things. 


SCHOLAR   AX»   CARPENTER.  81 

Brave  were  his  eyes,  and  frank  his  mien ; 
Of  all  men's  faces,  calm  or  keen, 
A  better  I  have  never  seen 
In  all  my  lonely  wanderings. 


And  how  it  was  I  scarce  can  tell. 
We  seemed  to  please  each  other  well ; 
I  lingered  till  a  noonday  bell 

Had  sounded,  and  his  task  was  done. 
An  oak  had  screened  us  from  the  heat ; 
And  'neath  it  in  the  standing  wheat, 
A  cradle  and  a  fair  retreat. 

Full  sweetly  slept  the  little  one. 


The  workman  rested  from  his  stroke. 
And  manly  were  the  words  he  spoke. 
Until  the  smiling  babe  awoke 

And  prayed  to  him  for  milk  and  food. 
Then  to  a  runlet  forth  he  went, 
And  brought  a  wallet  from  the  bent. 
And  bade  me  to  the  meal,  intent 

I  should  not  quit  his  neighboi'hood. 
6 


82  SCHOLAR   AND   CARPENTER. 

*'  For  here,"  said  he,  "  are  bread  and  beer. 
And  meat  enough  to  make  good  cheer ; 
Sir,  eat  with  me,  and  have  no  fear. 

For  none  upon  my  work  depend, 
Saving  this  child  ;  and  I  may  say 
That  I  am  rich,  for  every  day 
I  put  by  somewhat ;  therefore  stay. 

And  to  such  eating  condescend." 


We  ate.     The  child  —  child  fair  to  see  — 
Began  to  cling  about  his  knee. 
And  he  down  leaning  fatherly 

Received  some  softly-prattled  prayer ; 
He  smiled  as  if  to  list  were  balm, 
And  with  his  labor-hardened  palm 
Pushed  from  the  baby-forehead  calm 

Those  shining  locks  that  clustered  there. 


The  rosy  mouth  made  fresh  essay  — 
"  O  would  he  sing  or  would  he  play?" 
I  looked,  my  thought  would  make  its  way- 
"  Fair  is  your  child  of  face  and  limb. 


SCUOLAll   XSl)   CAIIPENTER.  83 

The  round  blue  eyes  full  sweetly  shine." 
He  answered  me  with  glance  benign  — 
Ay,  Sir ;  but  he  is  none  of  mine, 
Although  I  set  great  store  by  him." 


With  that,  as  if  his  heart  was  fain 
To  open  —  nathless  not  complain  — 
He  let  my  quiet  questions  gain 

His  story  :   "  Not  of  kin  to  me," 
Repeating;  " but  asleep,  awake. 
For  worse,  for  better,  him  I  take, 
To  cherish  for  my  dead  wife's  sake, 

And  count  him  as  her  legacy. 


"I  married  with  the  sweetest  lass 
That  ever  stepped  on  meadow  grass ; 
That  ever  at  her  looking-glass 

Some  pleasure  took,  some  natural  care ; 
That  ever  swept  a  cottage  floor 
And  worked  all  day,  nor  e'er  gave  o'er 
Till  eve,  then  watched  beside  the  door 

Till  her  good  man  should  meet  her  there. 


84:  SCHOLAR   AND   CARPENTER. 

•'  But  I  lost  all  in  Its  fresh  prime  ; 
My  wife  fell  ill  before  her  time  — 
Just  as  the  bells  began  to  chime 

One  Sunday  morn.     By  next  day's  light 
Her  little  babe  was  born  and  dead, 
And  she,  unconscious  what  she  said, 
With  feeble  hands  about  her  spread. 

Sought  it  with  yearnings  infinite. 


"With  mother-longing  still  beguiled, 
And  lost  in  fever-fancies  wild, 
She  piteously  bemoaned  her  child 

That  we  had  stolen,  she  said,  away. 
And  ten  sad  days  she  sighed  to  me, 
'  I  cannot  rest  until  I  see 
My  pretty  one  !     I  think  that  he 

Smiled  in  my  face  but  yesterday.' 


"  Then  she  would  change,  and  faintly  try 
To  sing  some  tender  lullaby ; 
And  '  Ah  ! '  would  moan,  '  if  I  should  die. 
Who,  sweetest  babe,  would  cherish  thee  ?  ' 


I 


SCIIOL.VK   AND   CARPKNTER.  85 

Then  weep,  '  My  pretty  boy  is  grown  ; 
With  tender  feet  on  the  cold  stone 
He  stands,  for  he  can  stand  alone, 
And  no  one  leads  him  motherly.' 


"  Then  she  with  dying  movements  slow 
Would  seem  to  knit,  or  seem  to  sew : 
'  His  feet  are  bare,  he  must  not  go 
Unshod : '  and  as  her  death  drew  on, 

*  O  little  baby,'  she  would  sigh  ; 

*  INIy  little  child,  I  cannot  die 

Till  I  have  you  to  slumber  nigh  — 
You,  you  to  set  mine  eyes  upon.' 


"  When  she  spake  thus,  and  moaning  lay. 
They  said,  '  She  cannot  pass  away, 
So  sore  she  longs  : '  and  as  the  day 

Broke  on  the  hills,  I  left  her  side. 
Mourning  along  this  lane  I  went ; 
Some  travelling  folk  had  pitched  their  tent 
Up  yonder:  there  a  woman,  bont 

With  age,  sat  meanly  canopied. 


86  SCHOLAR  AND   CARPKNTEK. 

"  A  twelvemonths'  child  was  at  her  side : 
'  Whose  infant  may  that  be  ? '  I  cried. 
'  His  that  will  own  him,'  she  replied  ; 

'  His  mother's  dead,  no  worse  could  be.' 
'  Since  you  can  give  —  or  else  I  erred  — 
See,  you  are  taken  at  your  word,' 
Quoth  I ;   '  That  child  is  mine  ;  I  heard. 

And  own  him !     Rise,  and  give  him  me.' 


*'  She  rose  amazed,  but  cursed  me  too ; 
She  could  not  hold  such  luck  for  true, 
But  gave  him  soon,  with  small  ado. 

I  laid  him  by  my  Lucy's  side  : 
Close  to  her  face  that  baby  crept. 
And  stroked  it,  and  the  sweet  soul  wept ; 
Then,  while  upon  her  arm  he  slept. 

She  passed,  for  she  was  satisfied. 


"  I  loved  her  well,  I  wept  her  sore, 

And  when  her  funeral  left  my  door 

I  thought  that  I  sliould  never  more 

Feel  any  pleasure  near  me  glow ; 


SCUOLAU   ^LND   CAKrEMTER.  87 

But  I  have  learned,  though  this  I  had, 
'Tis  sometimes  natural  to  be  glad, 
And  no  man  can  be  always  sad 
Unless  he  wills  to  have  it  so. 


"  Oh,  I  had  heavy  nights  at  first. 
And  daily  wakening  was  the  worst : 
For  then  my  grief  arose,  and  burst 

Like  something  fresh  upon  my  head ; 
Yet  when  less  keen  it  seemed  to  grow, 
I  was  not  pleased  —  I  wished  to  go 
Mourning  adown  this  vale  of  woe. 

For  all  my  life  uncomforted. 


"I  grudged  myself  the  lightsome  air. 
That  makes  man  cheerful  unaware  ; 
When  comfort  came,  I  did  not  care 

To  take  it  in,  to  feel  it  stir : 
And  yet  God  took  with  me  His  plan. 
And  now  for  my  appointed  span 
I  think  I  am  a  happier  man 

For  having  wed  and  wept  for  her. 


88  SCHOL-VR   AND   CARPENTER. 

' '  Because  no  natural  tie  remains, 
On  this  small  thing  I  spend  my  gains  ; 
God  makes  me  love  him  for  my  pains. 

And  binds  me  so  to  wholesome  care ; 
I  would  not  lose  from  my  past  life 
That  happy  year,  that  happy  wife  ! 
Yet  now  I  wage  no  useless  strife 

With  feelings  blithe  and  debonair. 


* '  I  have  the  courage  to  be  gay, 
Although  she  lieth  lapped  away 
Under  the  daisies,  for  I  say, 

'  Thou  wouldst  be  glad  if  thou  couldst  see  : ' 
My  constant  thought  makes  manifest 
I  have  not  what  I  love  the  best, 
But  I  must  thank  God  for  the  rest 

While  I  hold  heaven  a  verity." 


He  rose,  upon  his  shoulder  set 
The  child,  and  while  with  vague  regret 
We  parted,  pleased  that  we  had  met. 
My  heart  did  with  herself  confer ; 


I 


a 


SCHOLAR  AJ^l)   CARPENTER.  89 

With  wholesome  shame  she  did  repent 
Her  reasonings  idly  eloquent, 
And  said,  "  I  might  be  more  content : 
But  God  go  with  the  carpenter." 


90 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


IN  THE  CONCLUDING  PART  OP  A  DISCOURSE  ON  FAME. 


\_He  thinks. "} 


F  there  be  memory  in  the  world  to 
come, 
If  thought  recur  to  some  things 
silenced  here, 
Then  shall  the  deep  heart  be  no 
longer  dumb. 
But  find  expression  in  that  happier  sphere  ; 
It  shall  not  be  denied  their  utmost  sum 

Of  love,  to  speak  without  or  fault  or  fear. 
But  utter  to  the  harp  with  changes  sweet 
Words  that,  forbidden  still,  then  heaven  were  incom- 
plete. 


THE  star's  moxumext.  91 

[jBe  speaks. "l 

Now  lot  us  talk  about  the  ancient  days, 

And  things  which  happened  long  before  our  birth : 

It  is  a  pity  to  lament  that  praise 

Should  be  no  shadow  in  the  train  of  worth. 

What  is  it,  Madam,  that  your  heart  dismays  ? 
Why  murmur  at  the  course  of  this  vast  earth  ? 

Think  rather  of  the  work  than  of  the  praise ; 

Come,  we  will  talk  about  the  ancient  days. 

There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said  he) ; 

I  will  relate  his  story  to  you  now, 
While  through  the  branches  of  this  apple-tree 

Some  spots  of  sunshine  flicker  on  your  brow ; 
While  every  flower  hath  on  its  breast  a  bee. 

And  every  bird  in  stirring  doth  endow 
The  grass  with  filling  blooms  that  smoothly  glide. 
As  ships  drop  down  a  river  with  the  tide. 

For  telling  of  his  tale  no  fitter  place 

Than  this  old  orchard,  sloping  to  the  west ; 

Through  its  pink  dome  of  blossom  I  can  trace 
Some  overlying  azure  ;  for  the  rest. 


92  THE  star's  monument. 

These  flowery  branches  round  us  interlace ; 

The  ground  is  hollowed  like  a  mossy  nest : 
Who  talks  of  fame  while  the  religious  spring 
Offers  the  incense  of  her  blossoming  ? 


There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said  he), 

■Who,  while  he  walked  at  sundown  in  a  lane, 
Took  to  his  heart  the  hope  that  destiny 

Had  singled  him  this  guerdon  to  obtain. 
That  l)y  the  power  of  his  sweet  minstrelsy 

Some  hearts  for  truth  and  goodness  he  should  gain, 
And  charm  some  grovellers  to  uplift  their  eyes 
And  suddenly  wax  conscious  of  the  skies. 


"  Master,  good  e'en  to  ye  !"  a  woodman  said, 

Who  the  low  hedge  was  trimming  with  his  shears. 

"  This  hour  is  fine  "  —  the  Poet  bowed  his  head. 

"  More  fine,"  he  thought,  "  0  friend  !  to  me  appears 

The  sunset  than  to  you ;  finer  the  spread 

Of  orange  lustre  through  these  azure  spheres. 

Where  little  clouds  lie  still,  like  flocks  of  sheep. 

Or  vessels  sailing  in  God's  other  deep. 


THE   star's   MOXUME^•T.  93 

'*  O  finer  far !     What  work  so  high  as  mine. 
Interpreter  betwixt  the  workl  and  man, 

Nature's  ungathered  pearls  to  set  and  shrine, 
The  mystery  she  wraps  her  in  to  scan ; 

Her  unsyllabic  voices  to  combine, 

And  serve  her  with  such  love  as  poets  can ; 

With  mortal  words,  her  chant  of  praise  to  bind. 

Then  die,  and  leave  the  poem  to  mankind? 


"  O  fair,  O  fine,  O  lot  to  be  desired ! 

Early  and  late  my  heart  appeals  to  me. 
And  says,  '  O  work,  O  will  —  Thou  man,  be  fired 

To  earn  this  lot,'  —  she  says,  '  I  would  not  be 
A  worker  for  mine  own  bread,  or  one  hired 

For  mine  owx  profit.  O,  I  would  be  free 
To  work  for  others  ;  love  so  earned  of  them 
Should  be  my  wages  and  my  diadem. 


"  '  Then  when  I  died  I  should  not  fall,'  says  she, 
'  Like  dropping  flowers  that  no  man  noticeth. 

But  like  a  great  branch  of  some  stately  tree 
Rent  in  a  tempest,  and  flung  down  to  death, 


I 


94  THE  star's  MOXUMENT. 

Thick  with  green  leafage  —  so  that  piteously 

Each  passer  by  that  ruin  shuddereth, 
And  saith,  The  gap  this  branch  hath  left  is  wide ; 
The  loss  thereof  can  never  be  supplied.'" 


But,  Madam,  while  the  Poet  pondered  so, 
Toward  the  leafy  hedge  he  turned  his  eye. 

And  saw  two  slender  branches  that  did  grow. 
And  from  it  rising  spring  and  flourish  high : 

Their  tops  were  twined  together  fast,  and,  lo. 
Their  shadow  crossed  the  path  as  he  went  by  — 

The  shadow  of  a  wild  rose  and  a  briar, 

And  it  was  shaped  in  semblance  like  a  lyre. 


In  sooth,  a  lyre !  and  as  the  soft  air  played. 
Those  branches  stirred,  but  did  not  disunite. 

"  O  emblem  meet  for  me  ! "  the  Poet  said ; 
"Ay,  I  accept  and  own  thee  for. my  right; 

The  shadowy  lyre  across  my  feet  is  laid. 

Distinct  though  frail,  and  clear  with  crimson  light! 

Fast  is  it  twined  to  bear  the  windy  strain, 

And,  supple,  it  will  bend  and  rise  again. 


THK   STARS   MONUMENT.  Di, 

"Tills  lyre  is  cast  across  the  dusty  way. 

The  common  path  that  common  men  pursue ; 

I  crave  like  blessing  for  my  shadowy  lay. 
Life's  trodden  paths  with  beauty  to  renew. 

And  cheer  the  eve  of  many  a  toil-stained  day. 
Light  it,  old  sun,  wet  it,  thou  common  dew, 

That  'ncath  men's  feet  its  image  still  may  be 

While  yet  it  waves  above  them,  living  lyre,  like  thee  !  " 


But  even  as  the  Poet  spoke,  behold 
He  lifted  up  his  face  toward  the  sky ; 

The  ruddy  sun  dipt  under  the  grey  wold, 

His  shadowy  lyre  was  gone  ;  and,  passing  by, 

The  woodman  lifting  up  his  shears,  was  bold 
Their  temper  on  those  branches  twain  to  try, 

And  all  their  loveliness  and  leafage  sweet 

Fell  in  the  pathway,  at  the  Poet's  feet. 


"  Ah  !  my  fair  emblem  that  I  chose,"  quoth  he, 

' '  That  for  myself  I  coveted  but  now. 
Too  soon,  methinks,  thou  hast  been  false  to  me ; 

The  lyre  from  pathway  fades,  the  light  from  brow." 


96  -    THE  star's  monument. 

Then  straightway  turned  he  from  it  hastily, 

As  dream  that  waking  sense  will  disallow ; 
And  while  the  highway  heavenward  paled  apace, 
He  went  on  westward  to  his  dwelling-place. 

He  went  on  steadily,  while  far  and  fast 

The  summer  darkness  dropped  upon  the  world, 

A  gentle  air  among  the  cloudlets  passed 

And  fanned  away  their  crimson  ;  then  it  curled 

The  yellow  poppies  in  the  field,  and  cast 
A  dimness  on  the  grasses,  for  it  furled 

Their  daisies,  and  swept  out  the  purple  stain 

That  eve  had  left  upon  the  pastoral  plain. 

He  reached  his  city.     Lo  !  the  darkened  street 
Where  he  abode  was  full  of  gazing  crowds ; 

He  heard  the  muffled  tread  of  many  feet ; 
A  multitude  stood  gazing  at  the  clouds. 

"What   mark   ye  there,"  said   he,    "and   Avherefore 
meet? 
Only  a  passing  mist  the  heaven  o'ershrouds  ; 

It  breaks,  it  parts,  it  drifts  like  scattered  spars  — 

What  lies  behind  it  but  the  nightly  stars  ?  " 


THE  star's  monument.  97 

Then  did  the  gazing  crowd  to  him  aver 

They  sought  a  lamp  in  heaven  whose  light  was  hid ; 
For  that  in  sooth  an  old  Astronomer 

Down  from  his  roof  had  rushed  into  their  mid, 
Frighted,  and  fain  with  others  to  confer, 

That  he  had  cried,  "  O  sirs  !  "  —  and  upward  bid 
Them  gaze  —  "  O  sirs,  a  light  is  quenched  afar; 
Look  up,  my  masters,  we  have  lost  a  star ! " 


The  people  pointed,  and  the  Poefs  eyes 
Flew  upward,  where  a  gleaming  sisterhood 

Swam  in  the  dewy  heaven.     The  very  skies 
Were  mutable  ;  for  all-amazed  he  stood 

To  see  that  truly  not  in  any  wise 

He  could  behold  them  as  of  old,  nor  could 

His  eyes  receive  the  whole  whereof  he  wot. 

But  when  he  told  them  over,  one  was  not. 


While  yet  he  gazed  and  pondered  reverently, 
The  fickle  folk  began  to  move  away. 

"  It  is  but  one  star  less  for  us  to  see ; 

And  what  does  one  star  signify  ?  "  quoth  they ; 
7 


I 


98  THE  star's  monumext. 

♦'  The  heavens  are  full  of  them."     "  But,  ah  !  "  said  he, 
"That  star  was  bright  while  yet  she  lasted."    "  Ay  !" 
They  answered  :   "  praise  her,  Poet,  an'  ye  will : 
Some  are  now  shinina;  that  are  brighter  still." 


"Poor  star !  to  be  disparaged  so  soon 

On  her  withdrawal,"  thus  the  Poet  sighed ; 

"  That  men  should  miss,  and  straight  deny  her  noon 
Its  brightness  ! "     But  the  people  in  their  pride 

Said,  "  How  are  we  beholden?  'twas  no  boon 
She  gave.     Her  nature  'twas  to  shine  so  wide : 

She  could  not  choose  but  shine,  nor  could  we  know 

Such  star  had  ever  dwelt  in  heaven  but  so." 


The  Poet  answered  sadly,  "  That  is  true  ! " 
And  then  he  thought  upon  unthankfulness  ; 

While  some  went  homeward ;  and  the  residue, 
Reflecting  that  the  stars  are  numberless. 

Mourned  that  man's  dayliglit  hours  should  be  so  few, 
So  short  the  shining  that  his  path  may  bless  : 

To  nearer  themes  then  tuned  their  willing  lips, 

And  thought  no  more  upon  the  star's  eclipse. 


THE  star's  monument.  99 

But  he,  the  Poet,  coukl  not  rest  content 
Till  ho  had  found  that  old  Astronomer ; 

Therefore  at  midnight  to  his  house  he  went 
And  prayed  him  be  his  tale's  interpreter. 

And  yet  upon  the  heaven  his  eyes  he  bent, 
Hearing  the  marvel ;  yet  he  sought  for  her 

That  was  avvanting,  in  the  hope  her  face 

Once  more  might  fill  its  reft  abiding-place. 


Then  said  the  old  Astronomer:  "My  son, 

I  sat  alone  upon  my  roof  to-night ; 
I  saw  the  stars  come  forth,  and  scarcely  shun 

To  fringe  the  edges  of  the  western  light ; 
I  marked  those  ancient  clusters  one  by  one, 

The  same  that  blessed  our  old  forefather's  sight ; 
For  God  alone  is  older  —  none  but  He 
Can  charge  the  stars  with  mutaljility : 


"The  elders  of  the  night,  the  steadfast  stars. 
The  old,  old  stars  which  God  has  let  us  see, 

That  they  might  be  our  soul's  auxiliars, 

And  help  us  to  the  truth  how  young  we  be  — 


100  THK   star's   monument. 

GocVs  youngest,  latest  born,  as  if,  some  spars 
And  a  little  clay  being  over  of  them  —  He 
Had  made  our  world  and  us  thereof,  yet  given, 
To  humble  us,  the  sight  of  His  great  heaven. 


"  But  ah  !  my  son,  to-night  mine  eyes  have  seen 
The  death  of  light,  the  end  of  old  renown ; 

A  shrinking  back  of  glory  that  had  been, 
A  dread  eclipse  before  the  Eternal's  frown. 

How  soon  a  little  grass  will  grow  between 
These  eyes  and  those  appointed  to  look  down 

Upon  a  world  that  was  not  made  on  high 

Till  the  last  scenes  of  their  long  empiry  ! 


"  To-night  that  shining  cluster  now  despoiled 
Lay  in  day's  wake  a  perfect  sisterhood ; 

Sweet  was  its  light  to  me  that  long  had  toiled. 
It  gleamed  and  trembled  o'er  the  distant  wood ; 

Blown  in  a  pile  the  clouds  from  it  recoiled. 
Cool  twilight  up  the  sky  her  way  made  good ; 

I  saw,  but  not  believed  —  it  was  so  strange  — 

That  one  of  tiiose  same  stars  had  suffered  change. 


THE   ST.\Jl's   MONUMENT.  101 

"  The  darkness  gathered,  and  methought  she  spread, 
Wraj)pL'd  in  a  reddish  haze  that  waxed  and  waned ; 

But  notwithstanding  to  myself  I  said  — 

'  The  stars  are  changeless  ;    sure   some  mote  hath 
stained 

Mine  eyes,  and  her  fair  glory  minished.' 
Of  age  and  failing  vision  I  complained. 

And  thought  '  some  vapor  in  the  heavens  doth  swim, 

That  makes  her  look  so  large  and  yet  so  dim.' 

"  But  I  gazed  round,  and  all  her  lustrous  peers 
In  her  red  presence  showed  but  Avan  and  white ; 

For  like  a  living  coal  beheld  through  tears 

She  glowed  and  quivered  with  a  gloomy  light : 

Methought  she  trembled,  as  all  sick  through  fears. 
Helpless,  appalled,  appealing  to  the  night ; 

Like  one  who  throws  his  arms  up  to  the  sky 

And  bows  down  suffering,  hopeless  of  reply. 

"  At  length,  as  if  an  everlasting  Hand 
Had  taken  liold  upon  her  in  her  place, 

And  swiftly,  like  a  golden  grain  of  sand, 
Thi'ough  all  the  deep  infinitudes  of  space 


102  THE   star's   MONyMENT. 

Was  drawing  her  —  God's  truth  as  here  I  stand  — 

Backward  and  inward  to  itself;  her  face 
Fast  lessened,  lessened,  till  it  looked  no  more 
Than  smallest  atom  on  a  boundless  shore. 


"  And  she  that  was  so  fliir,  I  saw  her  lie, 

The  smallest  thing  in  God's  great  firmament, 

Till  night  was  at  the  darkest,  and  on  high 

Her  sisters  glittered,  though  her  light  was  spent ; 

I  strained,  to  follow  her,  each  aching  eye, 
So  swiftly  at  her  IMaker's  will  she  went ; 

I  looked  again  —  I  looked  —  the  star  was  gone. 

And  nothing  marked  in  heaven  where  she  had  shone." 


"  Gone  ! "  said  the  Poet,  "  and  about  to  be 
Forgotten  :  O,  how  sad  a  fate  is  hers  ! " 

"  How  is  it  sad,  my  son  ?  "  all  reverently 

The  old  man  answered  ;   "  though  she  ministers 

No  longer  with  her  lamp  to  me  and  thee. 

She  has  fulfilled  her  mission.     God  transfers 

Or  dims  her  ray ;  yet  was  she  blest  as  bright, 

For  all  her  life  was  spent  in  giving  light." 


THE  utar's  monument.  103 

*'  Her  mission  she  fulfilled  assuredly," 
The  Poet  cried  :   "  but,  O  unhajipy  star  ! 

None  praise  and  few  will  bear  in  memory 

The  name  she  went  by.     O,  from  far,  from  far 

Comes  down,  methinks,  her  mournful  voice  to  me, 
Full  of  regrets  that  men  so  thankless  are." 

So  said,  he  told  that  old  Astronomer 

All  that  the  <razins:  crowd  had  said  of  her. 


And  he  went  on  to  speak  in  bitter  wise. 
As  one  who  seems  to  tell  another's  fate, 

But  feels  that  nearer  meaning  underlies. 
And  points  its  sadness  to  his  own  estate : 

*'  K  such  be  the  reward,"  he  said  with  sighs, 
"Envy  to  earn  for  love,  for  goodness  hate- 

If  such  be  thy  reward,  hard  case  is  thine ! 

It  had  been  better  for  thee  not  to  shine. 


"  If  to  reflect  a  light  that  Is  divine 

Makes  that  which  doth  reflect  it  better  seen, 
And  if  to  see  is  to  contemn  the  shrine, 

'Twere  surelv  better  it  had  never  been : 


104  THE  star's  monument. 

It  had  been  better  for  her  not  to  shine, 

And  for  me  not  to  sing.  Better,  I  ween. 
For  us  to  yield  no  more  that  radiance  bright. 
For  them,  to  lack  the  light  than  scorn  the  light." 


Strange  words  were  those  from  Poet  lips  (said  he)  ; 

And  then  he  paused,  and  sighed,  and  turned  to  look 
Upon  the  lady's  downcast  eyes,  and  see 

How  fast  the  honey  bees  in  settling  shook 
Those  apple  blossoms  on  her  from  the  tree  ; 

He  watched  her  busy  fingers  as  they  took 
And  slipped  the  knotted  thread,  and  thought  how  much 
He  would  have  given  that  hand  to  hold  —  to  touch. 


At  length,  as  suddenly  become  aware 

Of  this  long  pause,  she  lifted  up  her  face, 

And  he  withdrew  his  eyes  —  she  looked  so  fair 
And  cold,  he  thought,  in  her  unconscious  grace. 

"Ah!  little  dreams  she  of  the  restless  care," 

He  thought,  "  that  makes  my  heart  to  throb  apace  : 

Though  we  this  morning  part,  the  knowledge  sends 

No  thrill  to  hc'r  calm  pulse  —  we  are  but  FitiEXDS." 


THE  stave's  monument.  105 

Ah !  turret  clock  (he  thought) ,  I  would  thy  hand 
Were  hid  behind  yon  towering  maple-trees  ! 

Ah !  tell-tale  shadow,  but  one  moment  stand  — 
Dark  shadow  —  fast  advancing  to  my  knees  ; 

Ah!  foolish  heart  (he  thought),  that  vainly  planned 
By  feigning  gladness  to  arrive  at  ease  ; 

Ah  !  painful  hour,  yet  pain  to  think  it  ends  ; 

I  must  remember  that  we  are  but  Mends. 


And  while  the  knotted  thread  moved  to  and  fro, 
In  sweet  regretful  tones  that  lady  said : 

' '  It  seemeth  that  the  fame  you  Avould  forego 
The  Poet  whom  you  tell  of  coveted ; 

But  I  Avould  lain,  methinks,  his  story  know. 

And  was  he  loved .'^ "   said  she,  "  or  was  he  wed.!* 

And  had  he  friends  ?  "     "One  friend,  perhaps,"  said  he 

"But  for  the  rest,  I  pray  you  let  it  be." 


Ah!  little  bird  (he  thought),  most  patient  bird. 
Breasting  thy  speckled  eggs  the  long  day  through, 

By  so  much  as  my  reason  is  preferred 

Above  thine  instinct,  I  my  work  would  do 


106  THE  start's  monument. 

Better  tlian  thou  dost  thine.     Thou  hast  not  stirred 

This  hour  thy  wing.     Ah  !  russet  bird,  I  sue 
For  a  lllie  patienee  to  wear  through  these  hours  — 
Bird  on  thy  nest  among  the  apple-flowers. 


I  will  not  speak  —  I  will  not  speak  to  thee, 
My  star !  and  soon  to  be  my  lost,  lost  star. 

The  sweetest,  first,  that  ever  shone  on  me, 
So  liigh  above  me  and  beyond  so  far ; 

I  can  forego  thee,  but  not  bear  to  see 

My  love,  like  rising  mist,  thy  lustre  mar : 

That  were  a  base  return  for  thy  sweet  light. 

Shine,  though  I  never  more  shall  see  that  thou  art  bright. 


Never!     'Tis  certain  that  no  hope  is  —  none  ! 

No  hope  for  me,  and  yet  for  thee  no  fear. 
The  hardest  part  of  my  hard  task  is  done ; 

Thy  calm  assures  me  that  I  am. not  dear; 
Though  far  and  fast  the  rapid  moments  run. 

Thy  bosom  heaveth  not,  thine  eyes  are  clear ; 
Silent,  perhaps  a  little  sad  at  heart 
Slie  is.     I  am  her  friend,  and  I  depart. 


THE  star's  monument.  107 

Silent  she  had  been,  but  she  raised  her  face  ; 

"  And  will  you  end,"  said  she,  "  this  half-told  tale  ?  " 
"Yes,  it  were  best,"  he  answered  her.     "  The  place 

"Where  I  left  off  was  Avhere  he  felt  to  fiiil 
His  courage,  ]\Iadam,  through  the  fancy  base 

That  they  who  love,  endure,  or  work,  may  rail 
And  cease  —  if  all  their  love,  the  works  they  wrought, 
And  their  endurance,  men  have  set  at  nought." 


*'  It  had  been  better  for  me  not  to  sing," 
My  Poet  said,  ' '  and  for  her  not  to  shine  ;  " 

But  him  the  old  man  answered,  sorrowing, 
"  My  son,  did  God  who  made  her,  the  Divine 

Lighter  of  suns,  when  down  to  yon  bright  ring 
He  cast  her,  like  some  gleaming  almandinc. 

And  set  her  in  her  place,  begirt  with  rays. 

Say  unto  her  '  Give  light,'  or  say  '  Eai-n  praise  ?  ' " 


The  Poet  said,  "  He  made  her  to  give  light." 

"  My  son,"  the  old  man  answered,  "  blest  are  such ; 

A  blessed  lot  is  theirs  ;  but  if  each  night 

Mankind  had  praised  her  radiance  —  inasmuch 


108  THE  star's  monument. 

As  praise  had  never  made  it  wax  more  bright, 

And  cannot  now  rekindle  with  its  touch 
Her  lost  effulgence,  it  is  nought.     I  wot 
That  praise  was  not  her  blessing  nor  her  lot." 


"  Ay,"  said  the  Poet,  "  I  my  words  abjure, 
And  I  repent  me  that  I  uttered  them ; 

But  by  her  light  and  by  its  forfeiture 
She  shall  not  pass  without  her  requiem. 

Though  my  name  perish,  yet  shall  hers  endure ; 
Though  I  should  be  forgotten,  she,  lost  gem. 

Shall  be  remembered  ;    though  she  sought  not  fame. 

It  shall  be  busy  with  her  beauteous  name. 


"  For  I  will  raise  in  her  bright  memory, 
Lost  now  on  earth,  a  lasting  monument. 

And  graven  on  it  shall  recorded  Ijc 

That  all  her  rays  to  light  mankind  were  spent ; 

And  I  will  sing  albeit  none  heedeth  me, 
On  her  exemplar  being  still  intent : 

While  in  men's  sight  shall  stand  the  record  thus — • 

'  So  long  as  she  did  last  she  lighted  us.'  " 


THE  star's  monument.  109 

So  said,  he  raised,  according  to  his  vow, 

On  the  green  grass,  where  oft  his  townsfolk  met, 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  lealy  bough 
That  leaned  toward  a  singing  rivulet, 

One  pure  white  stone,  whereon,  like  crown  on  brow. 
The  image  of  the  vanished  star  was  set ; 

And  this  was  graven  on  the  pure  white  stone 

In  golden  letters  —  "  While  she  lived  she  shone.'* 

Madam,  I  cannot  give  this  story  well  — 

My  heart  is  beating  to  another  chime ; 
My  voice  must  needs  a  different  cadence  swell ; 

It  is  yon  singing  bird,  which  all  the  time 
Wooeth  his  nested  mate,  that  doth  dispel 

My  thoughts.    What,  deem  you,  could  a  lover's  rhj-me 
The  sweetness  of  that  passionate  lay  excel  ? 
O  soft,  O  low  her  voice  —  "I  cannot  tell." 

[//e  thinks. '\ 
The  old  man  —  aye  he  spoke,  he  was  not  hard; 

"  She  was  his  joy,''  he  said,  "  his  comforter, 
But  he  would  trust  me.     I  was  not  debarred 

Whate'er  my  heart  approved  to  say  to  her." 


110  THE   STAK's   MOXUMEXT. 

Approved !     O  torn  and  tempted  and  ill-starred 
And  breaking  heart,  approve  not  nor  demur ; 
It  is  the  serpent  that  beguileth  thee 
With  "  God  doth  know"  beneath  this  apple-tree. 

Yea,  God  doth  know,  and  only  God  doth  know. 

Have  pity,  God,  my  spirit  groans  to  Thee ! 
I  bear  Thy  curse  primeval,  and  I  go  ; 

But  heavier  than  on  Adam  falls  on  me 
My  tillage  of  the  wilderness  ;  for,  lo  ! 

I  leave  behind  the  woman,  and  I  see 
As  'twere  the  gates  of  Eden  closing  o'er 
To  hide  her  from  my  sight  for  evermore. 

[iTe  S2'>eaks.'\ 
I  am  a  fool,  with  sudden  start  he  cried, 

To  let  the  song-bird  work  me  such  unrest : 
If  I  break  off  again,  I  pray  you  chide, 

For  morning  fleeteth,  with  my  tale  at  best 
Half  told.    That  white  stone.  Madam,  gleamed  beside 

The  little  rivulet,  and  all  men  pressed 
To  read  the  lost  one's  story  traced  thereon, 
The  golden  legend  —  "While  she  lived  she  shone." 


THE  star's  monument.  Ill 

And,  Madam,  when  the  Poet  heard  them  read, 
And  chiklren  spell  the  letters  softly  through, 

It  may  be  that  he  felt  at  heart  some  need, 
Some  craving  to  be  thus  remembered  too ; 

It  may  be  that  he  wondered  if  indeed 

He  must  die  wholly  when  he  passed  from  view ; 

It  may  be,  wished,  when  death  his  eyes  made  dim, 

That  some  kind  hand  would  raise  such  stone  for  him. 


But  shortly,  as  there  comes  to  most  of  us, 

There  came  to  him  the  need  to  quit  his  home : 

To  tell  you  why  were  simply  hazardous. 

What  said  I,  Madam  ?  —  men  were  made  to  roam 

My  meaning  is.     It  hath  been  always  thus  : 
They  are  athirst  for  mountains  and  sea  foam ; 

Heirs  of  this  world,  what  wonder  if  perchance 

They  long  to  see  their  grand  inheritance  ? 


He  left  his  city,  and  went  forth  to  teach 
Mankind,  his  peers,  the  hidden  harmony 

That  underlies  God's  discords,  and  to  reach 
And  touch  the  master-string  that  like  a  sigh 


112  THE   star's   monument. 

Thrills  in  their  souls,  as  if  it  would  beseech 

Some  hand  to  sound  it,  and  to  satisfy 
Its  yearning  for  expression  :  but  no  word 
Till  poet  touch  it  hath  to  make  its  music  heard. 

[He  thinks.'] 
I  know  that  God  is  good,  though  evil  dwells 

Among  us,  and  doth  all  things  holiest  share  ; 
That  there  is  joy  in  heaven'  while  yet  our  knells 

Sound  for  the  souls  which  He  has  summoned  there ; 
That  painful  love  unsatisfied  hath  spells 

Earned  by  its  smart  to  soothe  its  fellow's  care : 
But  yet  this  atom  cannot  in  the  whole 
Forget  itself — it  aches  a  separate  soul. 

{^He  speaks.'] 
But,  Madam,  to  mj^  Poet  I  return. 

With  his  sweet  cadences  of  woven  words 
He  made  their  rude  untvitored  hearts  to  burn 

And  melt  like  gold  refined.     No  brooding  birds 
Sing  better  of  the  love  that  doth  sojourn 

Hid  in  the  nest  of  home,  which  softly  girds 
The  lieating  lieart  of  life ;  and,  strait  tliough  it  be. 
Is  straitness  better  than  wide  hberty. 


t:i1':  star's  monument.  113 

He  taught  them,  and  they  learned,  but  not  the  less 
Remained  unconscious  whence  that  lore  they  drew, 

But  dreamed  that  of  their  native  nobleness 

Some  lofty  thoughts,  that  he  had  planted,  grew ; 

His  glorious  maxims  in  a  lowly  dress. 

Like  seed  sown  broadcast,  sprung  in  all  men's  view. 

The  sower,  passing  onward,  was  not  known, 

And  all  men  reaped  the  harvest  as  their  own. 


It  may  be.  Madam,  that  those  ballads  sweet. 
Whose  rhythmic  measures  yesterday  we  sung, 

Which  time  and  changes  make  not  obsolete. 
But  (as  a  river  bears  down  blossoms  tlvuig 

Upon  its  breast)  take  with  them  while  they  fleet  • 
It  may  be  from  his  lyre  that  first  they  sprung : 

But  who  can  tell,  since  work  surviveth  fame  ?  — 

The  rh}-me  is  left,  but  lost  the  Poet's  name. 


lie  worked,  and  bravely  he  fulfilled  his  trust  - 
So  long  he  wandered  sowing  worthy  seed, 

Watering  of  wayside  buds  that  were  adust, 
And  touchincr  for  the  common  ear  his  reed  ■ 


114  THE   star's   monument. 

So  long  to  wear  away  the  cankering  rust 

That  dulls  the  gold  of  life  —  so  long  to  plead 
With  sweetest  music  for  all  souls  oppressed, 
That  he  was  old  ere  he  had  thought  of  rest. 


Old  and  grey-headed,  leaning  on  a  staflf, 
To  that  great  city  of  his  birth  he  came, 

And  at  its  gates  he  paused  with  wondering  laugh 
To  think  how  changed  were  all  his  thoughts  of  fame 

Since  first  he  carved  the  golden  epitaph 
To  keep  in  memory  a  worthy  name, 

And  thought  forgetfulness  had  been  its  doom 

But  for  a  few  bright  letters  on  a  tomb. 


The  old  Astronomer  had  long  since  died  ; 

The  friends  of  youth  were  gone  and  far  dispersed ; 
Strange  were  the  domes  that  rose  on  every  side  ; 

Strange  fountains  on  his  wondering  vision  burst ; 
The  men  of  yesterday  tiicir  business  plied  ; 

No  face  was  left  that  he  had  known  at  first ; 
And  in  the  city  gardens,  lo  !  he  sees 
The  saplings  that  he  set  are  stately  trees. 


THE  star's  monument.  115 

Upon  the  grass  beneath  their  welcome  shade, 
Behold !   he  marks  the  fair  white  monument, 

And  on  its  face  the  golden  words  displayed, 
For  sixty  years  their  lustre  have  not  spent ; 

He  sitteth  by  it  and  is  not  afraid, 
But  in  its  shadow  he  is  well  content ; 

And  envies  not,  though  bright  their  gleamings  are, 

The  golden  letters  of  the  vanished  star. 


He  gazeth  up ;  exceeding  bright  appears 
That  golden  legend  to  his  aged  eyes, 

For  they  are  dazzled  till  they  fill  with  tears. 
And  his  lost  Youth  doth  like  a  vision  rise ; 

She  saith  to  him,  "  In  all  these  toilsome  years. 
What  hast  thou  won  by  work  or  enterprise  ? 

What  hast  thou  won  to  make  amends  to  thee, 

As  thou  didst  swear  to  do,  for  loss  of  me? 


*'  O  man  !  O  white-haired  man  !  "  the  vision  said, 
"  Since  we  two  sat  beside  this  monument 

Life's  clearest  hues  ai-e  all  evanislied. 

The  golden  wealth  thou  hadst  of  me  is  spent ; 


116  THE   star's   monument. 

The  wind  hath  swept  thy  flowers,  tlieir  leaves  are  shed ; 

The  music  is  played  out  that  with  thee  went." 
"  Peace,  peace  ! "  he  cried  ;  "I  lost  thee,  but,  in  truth, 
There  are  worse  losses  than  the  loss  of  youth." 


He  said  not  what  those  losses  were  —  but  I  — 
But  I  must  leave  them,  for  the  time  draws  near. 

Some  lose  not  only  joy,  but  memory 
Of  how  it  felt :  not  love  that  was  so  dear 

Lose  only,  but  the  steadfast  certainty 

That  once  they  had  it ;  doubt  comes  on,  then  fear. 

And  after  that  despondency.     I  wis 

The  Poet  must  have  meant  such  loss  as  this. 


But  while  he  sat  and  pondered  on  his  youth, 
He  said,  "  It  did  one  deed  that  doth  remain, 

For  it  preserved  the  memory  and  the  truth 
Of  her  that  now  doth  neither  set  nor  wane, 

But  shine  in  all  men's  thoughts  ;  nor  sink  forsooth, 
And  be  forgotten  like  the  summer  rain. 

O,  it  is  good  that  man  should  not  forget 

Or  benefits  foregone  or  brightness  set !  " 


TiiK  stak's  monument.  117 

lie  spoke  and  said,  "My  lot  contenffitli  me; 

I  am  right  glad  lor  this  her  worthy  fame  ; 
That  -which  was  good  and  great  I  fain  would  see 

Drawn  with  a  halo  round  what  rests  —  its  name." 
This  while  the  Poet  said,  behold,  there  came 

A  workman  with  his  tools  anear  the  tree. 
And  when  he  read  the  words  he  paused  awhile 
And  pondered  on  them  with  a  wondering  smile. 


And  then  he  said,  "  I  pray  you,  Sir,  what  mean 
The  golden  letters  of  this  monument  ?  " 

In  wonder  quoth  the  Poet,  "  Hast  thou  been 
A  dweller  near  at  hand,  and  their  intent 

Hast  neither  heard  by  voice  of  ftinie,  nor  seen 
The  marble  earlier?  "     "  Ay,"  said  he,  and  leant 

Upon  his  spade  to  hear  the  tale,  then  sigh, 

And  say  it  was  a  marvel,  and  pass  by. 


Then  said  the  Poet,  "  This  is  strange  to  me." 
But  as  he  mused,  with  trouble  in  his  mind, 

A  band  of  maids  approached  him  leisurely, 
Like  vessels  sailing  with  a  favoring  wind ; 


118  THE   star's   monument. 

/Vnd  of  their  rosy*lips  requested  he, 

As  one  that  for  a  doubt  would  solving  find, 
The  tale,  if  tale  there  were,  of  that  white  stone, 
And  those  fair  letters  —  "  While  she  lived  she  shone-" 


Then  like  a  fleet  that  floats  becalmed  they  stay. 

"  O,  Sir,"  saith  one,  "this  monument  is  old; 
But  we  have  heard  our  virtuous  mothers  say 

That  by  their  mothers  thus  the  tale  Avas  told : 
A  Poet  made  it ;  journeying  then  away. 

He  left  us ;  and  though  some  the  meaning  hold 
For  other  than  the  ancient  one,  yet  we 
Receive  this  legend  for  a  certainty :  — 


"  There  was  a  lily  once,  most  purely  white. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  these  boughs  it  grew ; 

Its  starry  blossom  it  unclosed  by  night, 

And  a  young  Poet  loved  its  shape  and  hue. 

He  watched  it  nightly,  'twas  so  fair  a  sight, 
Until  a  stormy  wind  arose  and  blew. 

And  when  he  came  once  more  his  flower  to  greet. 

Its  fallen  pi^tals  drifted  to  his  feet. 


THE   star's   monument.  liy 

"  And  for  his  beautiful  white  lily's  sake. 

That  she  might  be  remembered  where  her  scent 

Had  been  right  sweet,  he  said  that  he  would  make 
In  her  dear  memory  a  monument : 

For  she  was  purer  than  a  driven  Hake 

Of  snow,  and  in  her  grace  most  excellent ; 

The  loveliest  life  that  death  did  ever  mar. 

As  beautiful  to  {iraze  on  as  a  star." 


"  I  thank  you,  maid,"  the  Poet  answered  her, 
"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  heard  your  tale." 

With  that  they  passed ;  and  as  an  inlander, 
Having  heard  breakers  raging  in  a  gale 

And  falling  down  in  thunder,  will  aver 
That  still,  when  far  away  in  grassy  vale. 

He  seems  to  hear  those  seething  waters  bound. 

So  in  his  ears  the  maiden's  voice  did  sound. 


He  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hand,  and  thought 
And  thought,  until  a  youth  came  by  that  way; 

And  once  again  of  him  the  Poet  sought 
The  story  of  the  star.     But,  well-a-day  ! 


120  TiiK  star's  monument. 

He  said,  "The  meaning  with  much  doubt  is  fraught, 

The  sense  thereof  can  no  man  surely  say ; 
For  still  tradition  sways  the  common  ear. 
That  of  a  truth  a  star  did  disappear. 


"  But  they  who  look  beneath  the  outer  shell 
That  wraps  the  '  kernel  of  the  people's  lore,' 

Hold  TiiAT  for  superstition  ;  and  they  tell 
That  seven  lovely  sisters  dwelt  of  j'ore 

In  this  old  city,  whei'e  it  so  befell 

That  one  a  Poet  loved;  that,  furthermore. 

As  stars  above  us  she  was  pure  and  good, 

And  fairest  of  that  beauteous  sisterhood. 


*'  So  beautiful  they  were,  those  virgins  seven. 

That  all  men  called  them  clustered  stars  in  song, 
Forgetful  that  the  stars  abide  in  heaven : 
But  woman  bideth  not  beneath  it  long; 
For  O,  alas  !  alas  !  one  fated  even. 
When  stars  their  azure  deeps  began  to  throng, 
That  vii'gin's  eyes  of  Poet  loved  waxed  dim. 
And  all  their  lustrous  shining  waned  to  him. 


TiiK  star's  monumkxt.  121 

"  In  summer  dusk  she  drooped  her  head  and  sighed 
Until  what  time  the  evening  star  went  down, 

And  all  the  other  stars  did  shining  bide 
Clear  in  the  lustre  of  their  old  renown, 

And  then  —  the  virgin  laid  her  down  and  died: 
Forgot  her  youth,  forgot  her  beauty's  crown, 

Forgot  the  sisters  whom  she  loved  before. 

And  broke  her  Poet's  heart  for  evermore." 


"A  mournful  tale,  in  sooth,"  the  lady  saith: 
"  But  did  he  truly  grieve  for  evermore  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  you  forget,"  he  answereth, 
"  That  this  is  but  a  fable  at  the  core 

O'  the  other  fable."     "Though  it  be  but  breath," 
She  asketh,  "  was  it  true  ?  "     Then  he,  "  This  lore. 

Since  it  is  fable,  either  way  may  go  ; 

Then,  if  it  please  you,  think  it  might  be  so." 


"  Nay,  but,"  she  saith,  "  if  I  had  told  your  tale, 
The  virgin  should  have  lived  his  home  to  bless, 

Or,  must  she  die,  I  would  have  made  to  fail 
His  useless  love."     "  I  tell  you  not  the  less," 


122  THE  star's  moxument. 

He  sighs,  "  because  it  was  of  no  avail : 

His  heart  the  Poet  would  not  dispossess 
Thereof.  But  let  us  leave  the  fable  now. 
My  Poet  heard  it  with  an  aching  brow." 


And  he  made  answer  thus  :   "I  thank  thee,  youth; 

Strange  is  thy  story  to  these  aged  ears. 
But  I  bethink  me  thou  hast  told  a  truth 

Under  the  guise  of  fable.     If  my  tears. 
Thou  lost  beloved  star,  lost  now,  forsooth. 

Indeed  could  bring  thee  back  among  thy  peers, 
So  new  thou  shouldst  be  deemed  as  newly  seen, 
For  men  forget  that  thou  hast  ever  been. 


"  There  was  a  morning  when  I  longed  for  fame, 
There  was  a  noontide  when  I  passed  it  by. 

There  is  an  evening  when  I  think  not  shame 
Its  substance  and  its  being  to  deny  ; 

For  if  men  bear  in  mind  great  deeds,  the  name 
Of  him  that  wrought  them  shall  they  leave  to  die ; 

Or  if  his  name  they  shall  have  deathless  writ, 

They  change  the  deeds  that  first  ennobled  it.     ' 


TILE    STAU"S    MONUMENT.  123 

"  O  golden  letters  of  this  monument ! 

O  words  to  eelebrate  a  loved  renown 
Lost  now  or  wrested  !  and  to  fancies  lent, 

Or  on  a  fabled  forehead  set  for  crown, 
For  my  departed  star,  I  am  content. 

Though  legends  dim  and  years  her  memory  drown ; 
For  what  were  fame  to  her,  compared  and  set 
By  this  great  truth  which  ye  make  lustrous  yet  ?  " 


"  Adieu  ! '"  the  Poet  said,  "  my  vanished  star. 
Thy  duty  and  thy  happiness  were  one. 

Work  is  heaven's  hest ;  its  fame  is  sublunar : 

The  fame  thou  dost  not  need  —  the  work  is  done. 

For  thee  I  am  content  that  these  things  are  ; 
More  than  content  were  I,  my  race  being  run. 

Might  it  be  true  of  me,  though  none  thereon 

Should  muse  regretful  —  '  While  he  lived  he  shone.'" 


So  said,  the  Poet  rose  and  went  his  way, 

And  that  same  lot  he  proved  whereof  he  spake. 

Madam,  my  story  is  told  out ;  the  day 

Draws  out  her  shadows,  time  doth  overtake 


124:  THE  start's  monument. 

The  morning.     That  which  endeth  call  a  lay, 

Sung  after  pause  —  a  motto  in  the  break 
Between  two  chapters  of  a  tale  not  new, 
Nor  joyful  —  but  a  common  tale.     Adieu  ! 


And  that  same  God  who  made  your  face  so  fair. 
And  gave  your  woman's  heart  its  tenderness, 

So  shield  the  blessmg  He  implanted  there, 
That  it  may  never  turn  to  your  distress. 

And  never  cost  you  trouble  or  despiir, 

Nor  granted  leave  the  granter  comfortless ; 

But  like  a  river  blest  where'er  it  flows, 

Be  still  receiving  while  it  still  bestows. 


Adieu,  he  said,  and  paused,  while  she  sat  mute 
In  the  soft  shadow  of  the  apple-tree ; 

The  skylark's  song  rang  like  a  joyous  flute. 
The  brook  went  prattling  past  her  restlessly  : 

She  lot  thcii-  tongues  be  her  tongue's  substitute ; 
It  was  the,  wind  that  sighed,  it  was  not  she : 

And  what  the  lark,  the  bi'ook,  the  wind,  had  said, 

We  cannot  tell,  for  none  interpreted. 


THE  star's  jionumext.  125 

Their  counsels  might  be  hard  to  reconcile, 
They  might  not  suit  the  moment  or  the  spot. 

She  rose,  and  laid  her  work  aside  the  while 
Down  in  the  sunshine  of  that  grassy  plot ; 

She  looked  upon  him  with  an  almost  smile. 
And  held  to  him  a  hand  that  faltered  not. 

One  moment  —  bird  and  brook  went  warbling  on. 

And  the  wind  sighed  again  —  and  he  was  gone. 


So  quietly,  as  if  she  beard  no  more 

Or  skylark  in  the  azure  overhead, 
Or  water  slipping  past  the  cressy  shore, 

Or  wind  that  rose  in  sighs,  and  sighing  tied  — 
So  quietly,  until  the  alders  hoar 

Took  him  beneath  them  ;  till  the  downwai'd  spread 
Of  planes  engulfed  him  in  their  leafy  seas  — 
She  stood  beneath  her  rose-flushed  apple-trees. 


And  then  she  stooped  toward  the  mossy  gi-ass. 
And  gathered  up  her  work  and  went  her  way  ; 

Straight  to  that  ancient  turret  she  did  pass. 
And  startle  back  some  fawns  that  were  at  play. 


126  THE  star's  monument. 

She  did  not  sigh,  she  never  said  "Alas  !" 

Although  he  was  her  friend  :  but  still  that  day, 
Where  elm  and  hornbeam  spread  a  towering  dome, 
She  crossed  the  dells  to  her  ancestral  home. 


And  did  she  love  him  ?  —  what  if  she  did  not? 

Then  home  was  still  the  home  of  happiest  years ; 
Nor  thought  was  exiled  to  partake  his  lot, 

Nor  heart  lost  courage  through  foreboding  fears  ; 
Nor  echo  did  against  her  secret  plot, 

Nor  music  her  betray  to  painful  tears  ; 
Nor  life  become  a  dream,  and  sunshine  dim. 
And  riches  poverty,  because  of  him. 


But  did  she  love  him?  —  what  and  if  she  did? 

Love  cannot  cool  the  burning  Austral  sand. 
Nor  show  the  secret  waters  that  lie  hid 

In  arid  valleys  of  that  desert  land. 
Love  has  no  spells  can  scorching  winds  forbid, 

Or  bring  the  help  which  tarries  near  to  hand. 
Or  spread  a  cloud  for  curtaining  faded  eyes 
That  gaze  up  dying  nito  alien  skies. 


127 


A  DEAD  YEAR. 

TOOK  a  year  out  of  my  life  and 

story — 
A  dead  year,  and  said,  "I  will  hew 

thee  a  tomb ! 
'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in 
glory ; ' 

Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom ; 
Swathed  in  linen,  and  precious  unguents  old ; 
Painted  with  cinnabar,  and  rich  with  gold. 


"  Silent  they  rest,  in  solemn  salvatory. 
Sealed   from  the  moth  and  the  owl  and  the  flitter- 
mouse  — 

Each  with  his  name  on  his  brow. 
'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory, 
Every  one  in  his  own  house  : ' 

Then  why  not  thou  ? 


128  A   DEAD   YEAR. 

"Year,"  I  said,  "thou  slialt  not  lack 
Bribes  to  bar  thy  coming  back ; 
Doth  old  Egypt  wear  her  best 
In  the  chambers  of  her  rest  ? 
Doth  she  take  to  her  last  bed 
Beaten  gold,  and  glorious  red  ? 
Envy  not !  for  thou  wilt  wear 
In  the  dark  a  shroud  as  fair ; 
Golden  with  the  sunny  ray 
Thou  withdrawest  from  my  day ; 
Wrought  upon  with  colors  fine 
Stolen  from  this  life  of  mine : 
Like  the  dusty  Libyan  kings, 
Lie  with  two  wide-open  wings 
On  thy  breast,  as  if  to  say. 
On  these  wings  hope  flew  away ; 
And  so  housed,  and  thus  adorned, 
Kot  forgotten,  but  not  scorned. 
Let  the  dark  for  evermore 
Close  thee  when  I  close  the  door; 
And  the  dust  for  ages  fall 
In  the  creases  of  thy  pall ; 
And  no  voice  nor  visit  rude 
Break  thy  sealed  solitude." 


A   DEAD   YEAR,  129 

I  took  the  year  out  of  my  life  and  story, 
The  dead  year,  and  said,  "  I  have  hewed  thee  a  tomb  ! 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory,' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom ; 
But  for  the  sword,  and  the  sceptre,  and  diadem. 

Sure  thou  didst  reign  like  them." 
So  I  laid  her  with  those  tyrants  old  and  hoary. 

According  to  my  vow  ; 
For  I  said,  "  The  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory. 
And  so  shalt  thou  ! " 

"Rock,"  I  said,  "  thy  ribs  are  strong. 

That  I  bring  thee  guard  it  long ; 

Hide  the  light  from  buried  eyes  — 

Hide  it,  lest  the  dead  arise." 

"Year,"  I  said,  and  turned  away, 

"  I  am  free  of  thee  this  day ; 

All  that  we  two  only  know, 

I  forgive  and  I  forego. 

So  thy  face  no  more  I  meet 

In  the  field  or  in  the  street." 

Thus  we  parted,  she  and  I ; 
Life  hid  death,  antl  put  it  by ; 
9 


130  A   DEAD   YEAR. 

Life  hid  death,  and  said,  "  Be  free! 
I  have  no  more  need  of  thee." 
No  more  need  !     O  mad  mistake. 
With  repentance  in  its  wake  ! 
Ignorant,  and  rash,  and  blind. 
Life  had  left  the  grave  behind ; 
But  had  locked  within  its  hold 
"With  the  spices  and  the  gold. 
All  she  had  to  keep  her  warm 


Scarce  the  sunset  bloom  was  gone. 
And  the  little  stars  outshone, 
Ere  the  dead  year,  stiff  and  stark, 
Drew  me  to  her  in  the  dark ; 
Death  drew  life  to  come  to  her. 
Beating  at  her  sepulchre. 
Crying  out,  "  How  can  I  part 
With  the  best  share  of  my  heart? 
Lo,  it  lies  upon  the  bier. 
Captive,  with  the  buried  year. 
O  my  heart ! "     And  I  fell  prone. 
Weeping  at  the  sealed  stone  ; 
"  Year  among  the  shades,"  I  said. 


A   DEAD    YEAR.  131 

*'  Since  I  live,  and  thou  art  dead. 
Let  my  captive  heart  be  free 
Like  a  bird  to  fly  to  me." 
And  I  stayed  some  voice  to  win, 
But  none  answered  from  witliin  ; 
And  I  kissed  the  door  —  and  night 
Deepened  till  the  stars  waxed  bright; 
And  I  saw  them  set  and  wane. 
And  the  world  turned  green  again. 

*'  So,"  I  whispered,  "  open  door, 
I  must  tread  this  palace  floor  — 
Sealed  jjalace,  rich  and  dim. 
Let  a  narrow  sunbeam  swim 
After  me,  and  on  me  spread 
While  I  look  upon  my  dead ; 
Let  a  little  warmth  be  free 
To  come  after ;  let  me  see 
Through  the  doorway,  when  I  sit 
Looking  out,  the  swallows  flit. 
Settling  not  till  daylight  goes ; 
Let  me  smell  the  wild  white  rose. 
Smell  the  woodbine  and  the  may ; 
Mark,  upon  a  sunny  day, 


132  A   DEAD   YEAK. 

Sated  from  their  blossoms  rise 
Honey-bees  and  butterflies. 
Let  me  hear,  O  !  let  me  hear. 
Sitting  by  my  buried  year. 
Finches  chirping  to  their  young, 
And  the  little  noises  flung 
Out  of  clefts  where  rabbits  play. 
Or  from  falling  water-spray ; 
And  the  gracious  echoes  woke 
By  man's  work :  the  woodman's  stroke. 
Shout  of  shepherd,  whistlings  blithe. 
And  the  whetting  of  the  scythe  ; 
Let  this  be,  lest,  shut  and  fuided 
From  the  well-beloved  world, 
I  forget  her  yearnings  old, 
And  he»  troubles  manifold, 
Strivings  sore,  submissions  meet, 
And  my  pulse  no  longer  beat. 
Keeping  time  and  bearing  part 
With  the  pulse  of  her  great  heart. 


"  So  !  swing  open  door,  and  shade 
Take  me  :  I  am  not  afraid, 


A    DEAD    YEAK.  133 

For  the  time  will  not  be  long; 
Soon  I  shall  have  waxen  strong  — 
Strong  enough  my  own  to  win 
From  the  grave  it  lies  within." 

And  I  entered.     On  her  bier 
Quiet  lay  the  buried  year ; 
I  sat  down  where  I  could  see 
Life  without  and  sunshine  free. 
Death  within.     And  I  between. 
Waited  my  own  heart  to  wean 
From  the  shroud  that  shaded  her 
In  the  rock-hewn  sepulchre  — 
Waited  till  the  dead  should  say, 
"Heart,  be  free  of  me  this  day" — 
Waited  with  a  patient  will  — 

And   I  WAIT    BETWEEX   THEM   STILL. 

I  take  the  year  back  to  my  life  and  story. 
The  dead  year,  and  say,  "  I  will  share  in  thy  tomb. 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory ; ' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom ! 
They  reigned  in  their  lifetime  with  sceptre  and  diadem, 
But  thou  e.xcellest  them ; 


134  A   DEAD   YEAR. 

For  life  doth  make  thy  grave  her  oratory. 

And  the  crown  is  still  on  thy  brow ; 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory ' 
And  so  dost  thou." 


135 


REFLECTIONS. 


Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  July,  1862. 


Looking  over  a  Gate  at  a  Pool  in  a  Field. 


jHAT  change  has  made  the  pastures 
sweet 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 
And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden 
hem? 
This   lovely  world,   the   hills,   the 
sward  — 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 
But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 


And  here's  the  field  with  light  aglow ; 
How  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show, 
And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling  shine  ! 


136  REFLECTIONS. 

Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  me 
The  morning  sjiarkles  of  the  sea 
Below  the  level  browsing  line. 

I  see  the  pool  moi'e  clear  by  half 
Than  pools  where  other  waters  laugh 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 

There,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste. 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pail. 
She  rosy  in  the  morning  light. 
Among  the  water-daisies  white. 

Like  some  fair  sloop  appeared  to  sail. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod. 
The  lucky  buttercups  did  nod. 

I  leaned  upon  the  gate  to  sec  : 
The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  speak; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek, 

And  all  mv  heart  was  trone  from  me. 


KEFLECTIONS.  13 'i 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate,  * 

And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes  — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than  sloes, 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,  that  grows 

Among  white-headed  majesties. 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  I  would  fain  to  thee  unfold ; 

Ah  !  let  me  —  let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head ; 
"  I  cannot  heed  It  now,"  she  said, 

"For  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good  to  make  ado  ? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through. 

And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 
From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  lied ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead. 

Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  content. 
So  sweet  and  stately  on  she  went. 
Right  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 


138  REFLECTIONS. 

Each*fetep  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  door 
The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 


u. 


For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk. 
How  fine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work ! 

For  work  does  good  when  reasons  fail  — 
Good ;  yet  the  axe  at  every  stroke 
The  echo  of  a  name  awoke  — 

Her  name  is  Mary  Martiudale. 

I'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men  :  a  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes  tell ; 
And  I  know  not,  but  I  can  say 
I  felt  as  shame-faced  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  name  right  well. 

And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 
I  went  —  I  could  not  choose  but  go  — 
To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill ; 


REPLEdTriONS.  139 

And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Within,  I  came  to  her  without, 
And  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 

The  garden  border  where  I  stood 

Was  sweet  with  pinks  and  southernwood. 

I  spoke  —  her  answer  seemed  to  fail : 
I  smelt  the  pinks  —  I  could  not  see  ; 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me. 

And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss,  I  pleaded  well : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline ; 
But  yet  I  think,  I  think  'tis  true, 
That,  leaned  at  last  into  the  dew. 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine. 

O  life  !  how  dear  thou  hast  become : 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb, 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spreads. 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads. 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail ! 


14t)' 


THE  LETTER  L. 


ABSENT. 


E  sat  on  grassy  slopes. that  meet 
With  sudden  dip  the  level  strand ; 
The  trees  hung  overhead-^ our  feet 
Were  on  the  sand. 


Two  silent  girls,  a  thoughtful  man, 

We  sunned  ourselves  in  open  light, 
And  felt  such  April  airs  as  fan 
The  Isle  of  Wight  5 


*^^; 

\7 

~"*^''~-  v/ 

v/ 

'  <^y^^^ 

w#- 

(^  tfVv 

^^^^ 

^^fe^ 

.^^^^^-« 

,_?^^ 

And  smelt  the  wall-flower  in  the  crag 
Whereon  that  dainty  waft  had  fed, 
Which  made  the  bell-hung  cowslip  wag 
Her  delicate  head ; 


THE   LETTEn   L.  141 

And  let  alighting  jackdaws  fleet 

Adown  it  open-winged,  and  pass 
Till  they  could  touch  with  outstretched  feet 
The  warmdd  gi'ass. 

The  happy  wave  ran  up  and  rang 

Like  service  bells  a  long  way  off. 
And  down  a  little  freshet  sprang 
From  mossy  trough, 

And  splashed  into  a  rain  of  spray, 

And  fretted  on  with  daylight's  loss, 
Because  so  many  blue-beUs  lay 
Leaning  across. 

Blue  martins  gossiped  in  the  sun. 

And  pairs  of  chattering  daws  flew  by, 
And  sailing  brigs  rocked  softly  on 
In  company. 

Wild  cherry  boughs  above  us  spread 

The  whitest  shade  was  ever  seen. 
And  flicker,  flicker,  came  and  fled 
Sun  spots  between. 


142  THE   LETTER  L. 

Bees  murmured  in  the  milk-white  bloom 

As  babes  will  sigh  for  deep  content 
When  their  sweet  hearts  for  peace  make  room, 
As  given,  not  lent. 

And  we  saw  on :  we  said  no  word. 

And  one  was  lost  in  musings  rare, 
One  buoyant  as  the  wafl  that  stirred 
Her  shining  hair. 

His  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  sand, 

Unfathomed  deeps  within  them  lay. 
A  slender  rod  was  in  his  hand — 
A  hazel  spray. 

Her  eyes  were  resting  on  his  face. 

As  shyly  glad,  by  stealth  to  glean 
Impressions  of  his  manly  grace 
And  guarded  mien ; 

The  mouth  with  steady  sweetness  set. 

And  eyes  conveying  unaware 
The  distant  hint  of  some  regret 
That  harbored  there. 


THE   LETTER   L.  143 

She  gazed,  and  in  the  tender  flush 

That  made  her  face  like  roses  blown, 
And  in  the  radiance  and  the  hush, 
Her  thought  was  shown. 

It  was  a  happy  thing  to  sit 

So  near,  nor  mar  his  reverie  ; 
She  looked  not  for  a  part  in  it, 
So  meek  was  she. 

But  it  was  solace  for  her  eves, 

And  for  her  heart,  that  yearned  to  him, 
To  watch  apart  in  loving  wise 
Those  musings  dim. 

Lost  —  lost,  and  gone  !     The  Pelham  woods 

Were  full  of  doves  that  cooed  at  ease ; 
The  orchis  filled  her  purple  hoods 
For  dainty  bees. 

He  heard  not ;  all  the  delicate  air 

Was  fresh  with  falling  water-spray : 
It  mattered  not  —  he  was  not  there, 
But  far  away. 


144  THE   LETTER   L. 

Till  with  the  hazel  in  his  hand, 

Still  droAvned  in  thought,  it  thus  befell ; 
He  drew  a  letter  on  the  sand  — 
The  letter  L. 

And  looking  on  it,  straight  there  wrought 

A  ruddy  flush  about  his  brow  ; 
His  letter  woke  him :  absent  thought 
Kushed  homeward  now. 

And  half-abashed,  his  hasty  touch 

Effaced  it  with  a  tell-tale  care. 
As  if  his  action  had  been  much, 
And  not  his  air. 

And  she  ?  she  watched  his  open  palm 

Smooth  out  the  letter  from  the  sand. 
And  rose,  with  aspect  almost  calm. 
And  filled  her  hand 

With  cherry  bloom,  and  moved  away 

To  gather  wild  forget-me-not. 
And  let  her  ei-rant  footsteps  stray 
To  one  sweet  spot. 


THE  LETTER  L.  145 

As  if  she  coveted  the  fair 

White  lining  of  the  silver-weed, 
And  cuckoo-pint  that  shaded  there 
Empurpled  seed. 

She  had  not  feared,  as  I  divine, 

Because  she  had  not  hoped.     Alas ! 
The  sorrow  of  it !  for  that  sign 
Came  but  to  pass  ; 

And  yet  it  robbed  her  of  the  right 

To  give,  who  looked  not  to  receive, 
And  made  her  blush  in  love's  despite 
That  she  should  grieve. 

A  shape  in  white,  she  turned  to  gaze ; 

Her  eyes  were  shaded  with  her  hand. 
And  half-way  up  the  winding  ways 
We  saw  her  stand. 

Green  hollows  of  the  fringed  cliff. 

Red  rocks  that  under  waters  show. 
Blue  reaches,  and  a  sailing  skiff. 
Were  spread  below. 
10 


146  THE   LETTER  L. 

She  stood  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  sigh. 

Perhaps  to  think ;  but  who  can  tell. 
How  heavy  on  her  heart  must  lie 
The  letter  L ! 


She  came  anon  with  quiet  grace ; 

And  "  What,"  she  murmured,  "  silent  yet !  " 
He  answered,  "  'Tis  a  haunted  place, 
And  spell-beset. 

•'  O  speak  to  us,  and  break  the  spell ! " 

"  The  spell  is  broken,"  she  replied. 
"  I  crossed  the  running  brook,  it  fell. 
It  could  not  bide. 

"And  I  have  brought  a  budding  world. 

Of  orchis  spires  and  daisies  rank. 

And  ferny  i)himes  l)ut  half  uncurled, 

From  yonder  bank  ; 


THE  LETTER   L.  14? 

"And  I  shall  weave  of  them  a  crown. 
And  at  the  well-head  launch  it  free, 
That  so  the  brook  may  float  it  down, 
And  out  to  sea. 

"  There  may  it  to  some  English  hands 
From  fairy  meadow  seem  to  come  ; 
The  fairyest  of  fairy  lands  — 
The  land  of  home." 

"Weave  on,"  he  said,  and  as  she  wove 

We  told  how  currents  in  the  deep, 
With  branches  from  a  lemon  grove. 
Blue  bergs  will  sweep. 

And  messages  from  shipwrecked  folk 
Will  navigate  the  moon-led  main, 
And  painted  boards  of  splintered  oak 
Their  port  regain. 

Then  floated  out  by  vagrant  thought, 

My  soul  beheld  on  torrid  sand 
The  wasteful  water  set  at  nought 
Man's  skilful  hand. 


148  THE   LETTER  L. 

And  suck  out  gold-dust  from  the  box, 
And  wash  it  down  in  weedy  whirls, 
And  split  the  wine-keg  on  the  rocks, 
And  lose  the  pearls. 

"  Ah !  why  to  that  which  needs  it  not," 

Methought,  ' '  should  costly  things  be  given  ? 
How  much  is  wasted,  wrecked,  forgot, 
On  this  side  heaven  !  " 

So  musing,  did  mine  ears  awake 

To  maiden  tones  of  sweet  reserve. 
And  manly  speech  that  seemed  to  make 
The  steady  curve 

Of  lips  that  uttered  it  defer 

Their  guard,  and  soften  for  the  thought : 
She  listened,  and  his  talk  with  her 
Was  fancy  fraught. 

"There  is  not  much  in  liberty"  — 
With  doubtful  pauses  he  began ; 
And  said  to  her  and  said  to  me, 
"  There  was  a  man  — 


THE   LETTER  L.  149 

'*  There  was  a  man  who  dreamed  one  night 

That  his  dead  father  came  to  him ; 

And  said,  when  fi/e  was  low,  and  light 

Was  burning  dim  — 

*' '  Why  vagrant  thus,  my  sometime  pride. 

Unloved,  unlovmg,  wilt  thou  roam? 
Sure  home  is  best ! '     The  son  replied, 
*  I  have  no  home.' 

^' '  Shall  not  I  speak  ? '  his  father  said, 

*  Who  early  chose  a  youthful  wife. 
And  worked  for  her,  and  with  her  led 
My  happy  life. 

"  *  Ay,  I  will  speak,  for  I  was  young 

As  thou  art  now,  when  I  did  hold 

The  prattling  sweetness  of  thy  tongue 

Dearer  than  gold ; 

"  *  And  rosy  from  thy  noonday  sleep 
Would  bear  thee  to  admiring  kin, 
And  all  thy  pretty  looks  woidd  keep 
My  heart  within. 


(50  THE   LETTER   L. 

"  '  Then  after,  'mid  thy  young  allies  — 

For  thee  ambition  flushed  my  brow  — 
I  coveted  the  schoolboy  prize 
Far  more  than  thou. 

"  '  I  thought  for  thee,  I  thought  for  all 

My  gamesome  imps  that  round  me  grew ; 
The  dews  of  blessing  heaviest  fall 
Where  care  falls  too. 

*'  'And  I  that  sent  my  boys  away, 

In  youthful  strength  to  earn  their  bread, 
And  died  before  the  hair  was  grey 
Upon  my  head  — 

" '  I  say  to  thee,  though  free  from  care, 

A  lonely  lot,  an  aimless  life. 
The  crowning  comfort  is  not  there  — 
Son,  take  a  wife.' 

'* '  Father  beloved,'  the  son  replied, 
And  failed  to  gather  to  his  breast. 
With  arms  in  darkness  searching  wide, 
The  formless  guest. 


THE  LETTER  !•.  151 

"  *  1  am  but  free,  as  sorrow  is, 

To  dry  her  tears,  to  laugh,  to  talk ; 
And  free,  as  sick  men  are,  I  wis 
To  rise  and  walk. 

"  •  And  free,  as  poor  men  are,  to  buy 

If  they  have  nought  wherewith  to  pay ; 
Nor  hope,  the  debt  before  they  die, 
To  wipe  away. 

"  '  What  'vails  it  there  are  wives  to  win, 
And  faithful  hearts  for  those  to  yearn. 
Who  find  not  aught  thereto  akin 
To  make  return  ? 

"  '  Shall  he  take  much  who  little  gives. 

And  dwells  in  spirit  far  away, 
When  she  that  In  his  presence  lives. 
Doth  never  stray, 

"  '  But  waking,  guideth  as  beseems 

The  happy  house  in  order  trim, 
And  tends  her  babes ;  and  sleeping,  dreams 
Of  them,  and  him  ? 


162  THE   LETTER  L. 

"  '  O  base,  O  cold,' "  —  while  thus  he  spake 

The  dream  broke  off,  the  vision  fled ; 
He  carried  on  his  speech  awake 
And  sighing  said  — 

♦"I  had  —  ah  happy  man  !  —  I  had 

A  precious  jewel  in  my  breast. 
And  while  I  kept  it  I  was  glad 
At  work,  at  rest ! 

"  '  Call  it  a  heart,  and  call  it  strong 

As  upward  stroke  of  eagle's  wing  ; 
Then  call  it  weak,  you  shall  not  wrong 
The  beating  thing. 

"  '  In  tangles  of  the  jungle  reed, 

Whose  heats  are  lit  with  tiger  eyes. 
In  shipwreck  drifting  with  the  weed 
'Neath  rainy  skies, 

"  *  Still  youthful  manhood,  fresh  and  keen, 

At  danger  gazed  with  awed  delight. 
As  if  sea  would  not  drown,  I  ween. 
Nor  serpent  bite. 


THE   LETTER   L.  163 

"  '  I  had  —  ah  happy  !  but  'tis  gone, 
The  priceless  jewel ;  one  came  by. 
And  saw  and  stood  awhile  to  con 
With  curious  eye, 

*' '  And  wished  for  it,  and  faintly  smiled 

From  under  lashes  black  as  doom. 
With  subtle  sweetness,  tender,  mild, 
That  did  illume 

"  '  The  perfect  face,  and  shed  on  it 

A  charm,  half  feeling,  half  surprise, 
And  brim  with  dreams  the  exquisite 
Brown  blessed  eyes. 

*' '  Was  it  for  this,  no  more  but  this, 

I  took  and  laid  it  in  her  hand, 
By  dimples  ruled,  to  hint  submiss, 
By  frown  unmanned  ? 

"  '  It  was  for  this  —  and  O  farewell 

The  fearless  foot,  the  present  mind. 
And  steady  will  to  breast  the  swell 
And  face  the  wind ! 


154  THE   LETTKR   L. 

"  'I  gav^  the  jewel  from  my  breast. 
She  played  with  it  a  little  while 
As  I  sailed  down  into  the  west, 
Fed  by  her  smile ; 

"  '  Then  weary  of  it  —  far  from  land, 

With  sigh  as  deep  as  destiny, 
She  let  it  drop  from  her  fair  hand 
Into  the  sea, 

•*  *  And  watched  it  sink ;  and  I  —  and  I,  — 

What  shall  I  do,  for  all  is  vain  ? 
No  wave  will  bring,  no  gold  will  buy, 
No  toil  attain ; 

*' '  Nor  any  diver  reach  to  raise 

My  jewel  from  the  blue  abyss  ; 
Or  could  they,  still  I  should  but  praise 
Their  work  amiss. 

"  '  Thrown,  thrown  away  !     But  I  love  yet 

The  fair,  Hiir  hand  which  did  the  deed : 
That  wayward  sweetness  to  forget 
Were  bitter  meed. 


THE   LETTER   L.  155 

"  '  No,  let  it  lie,  and  let  the  wave 

Roll  over  it  for  evermore  ; 
Whebned  where  the  sailor  hath  his  grave  — 
The  sea  her  store. 

*' '  My  heart,  my  sometime  happy  heart ! 

And  O  for  once  let  me  complain, 
I  must  forego  life's  better  part  — 
Man's  dearer  gain. 

"  *  I  worked  afar  that  I  might  rear 

A  peaceful  home  on  English  soil ; 
I  labored  for  the  gold  and  gear — 
I  loved  my  toil. 

"  *  For  ever  in  my  spirit  spake 

The  natural  whis^ier,  "  Well  'twill  be 
When  loving  wife  and  children  break 
Their  bread  with  thee !  " 

*' '  The  gathered  gold  is  turned  to  dross. 

The  wife  hath  faded  into  air, 

My  heart  is  thrown  away,  my  loss 

I  cannot  spare. 


156  THE   LETTER   L. 

"  *  Not  spare  iinsated  thought  her  food  — 

No,  not  one  rustle  of  the  fold, 
Nor  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
Nor  gleam  of  gold ; 

•'  *  Nor  quaint  devices  of  the  shawl, 

Far  less  the  drooping  lashes  meek ; 
The  gracious  figure,  lithe  and  tall. 
The  dimpled  cheek; 

"  '  And  all  the  wonders  of  her  eyes. 

And  sweet  caprices  of  her  air. 
Albeit,  indignant  reason  cries. 
Fool !  have  a  care. 

*' '  Fool !  join  not  madness  to  mistake ; 

Thou  knowest  she  loved  thoe  not  a  whit ; 
Only  that  she  thy  heart  might  break — 
She  wanted  it, 

"  '  Only  the  conquered  thing  to  chain 

So  fast  that  none  might  set  it  free, 
Nor  other  woman  there  might  reign 
And  comfort  thee. 


THE   LETTER  L.  157 

"  '  Robbed,  robbed  of  life's  illusions  sweet ; 

Love  dead  outside  her  closed  door, 
And' passion  fainting  at  her  feet  i 

To  wake  no  more  ; 

"  '  What  canst  thou  give  that  unknown  bride 

Whom  thou  didst  work  for  in  the  waste, 
Ere  fated  love  was  born,  and  cried  — 
Was  dead,  ungraced? 

"  *  No  more  but  this,  the  partial  care, 

The  natural  kindness  for  its  own, 
The  trust  that  waxeth  unaware. 
As  woi'th  is  known : 

"  '  Observance,  and  complacent  thought 

Indulgent,  and  the  honor  due 
That  many  another  man  has  brought 
Who  brought  love  too. 

"  'Nay,  then,  forbid  it  Heaven  !'  he  said, 

'  The  saintly  vision  fivdes  from  me  ; 
O  bands  and  chains  !  I  cannot  wed  — 
I  am  not  free.' " 


I 


158  THE    LETTER    L. 

With  that  he  raised  his  face  to  view ; 

"What  think  you,"  asking,  "  of  my  tale  ? 
And  was  he  right  to  let  the  dew 
Of  morn  exhale, 

"  And  burdened  in  the  noontide  sun. 

The  grateful  shade  of  home  forego  — 
Could  he  be  right  —  I  ask  as  one 
Who  fain  would  know  ?  " 

He  spoke  to  her  and  spoke  to  me ; 

The  rebel  rose-hue  dyed  her  cheek ; 
The  woven  crown  lay  on  her  knee ; 
She  would  not  speak. 

And  I  with  doubtful  pause  —  averse 

To  let  occasion  drift  away  — 
I  answered  —  "If  his  case  were  worse 
Than  word  can  say, 

"  Time  is  a  healer  of  sick  hearts. 

And  women  have  been  known  to  choose, 
With  purpose  to  allay  their  smarts, 
And  tend  their  bruise. 


THE   LETTER  L.  169 

"These  for  themselves.     Content  to  give, 

In  their  own  lavish  love  complete, 
Taking  for  sole  prerogative 

Theii"  tendance  sweet. 

"  Such  meeting  in  their  diadem 

Of  crowning  love's  ethereal  fire, 
Himself  he  robs  who  robbeth  them 
Of  their  desire. 

"Therefore  the  man  who,  dreaming,  cried 

Against  his  lot  that  evensong, 
I  judge  him  honest,  and  decide 
That  he  was  wrong." 

*'  When  I  am  judged,  ah  may  my  fate," 
He  whispered,  "  in  thy  code  be  read ! 
Be  thou  both  judge  and  advocate." 
Then  turned,  he  said  — 

"  Fair  weaver ! "  touching,  while  he  spoke, 

The  woven  crown,  the  weaving  hand, 
"  And  do  you  this  decree  revoke. 
Or  may  it  stand  ? 


160  THE   LETTER   L. 

"  This  friend,  you  ever  think  her  right  — 

She  is  not  Avrong,  then  ?  "     Soft  and  low 
The  little  trembling  word  took  flight : 
She  answered,  "  "N'o." 


PPiSENl. 

A  meadow  where  thp  fj^-ass  was  deep, 

Rich,  square,  and  golden  to  the  view, 
A  belt  of  elms  with  level  sweep 
About  it  grew. 

The  sun  beat  down  on  it,  the  line 

Of  shade  was  clear  beneath  the  trees ; 
There,  by  a  clustering  eglantine. 
We  sat  at  ease. 

And  O  the  buttercups  !  that  field 

O'  the  cloth  of  gold,  where  pennons  swam- 
Where  France  set  up  his  lilied  shield. 
His  oriflamb, 


THE   LETTER   L.  161 

And  Henry's  lion-standard  rolled : 

What  was  it  to  their  matchless  sheen, 
Their  million  million  drops  of  gold 
Among  the  green ! 

"We  sat  at  ease  in  peaceful  trust, 

For  he  had  written,  "  Let  us  meet ; 
My  wife  grew  tired  of  smoke  and  dust. 
And  London  heat, 

"  And  I  have  found  a  quiet  grange. 

Set  back  in  meadows  sloping  west. 
And  there  our  little  ones  can  range 
And  she  can  rest. 

"  Come  doAvn,  that  we  may  show  the  view.^ 

And  she  may  hear  your  voice  again, 
And  talk  her  woman's  talk  with  you 
Along  the  lane." 

Since  he  had  drawn  with  listless  hand 
The  letter,  six  long  years  had  fled. 
And  winds  had  blown  about  the  sand, 
And  they  were  wed. 
11 


162  THE   LETTER   L. 

Two  rosy  urchins  near  him  played, 

Or  watched,  entranced,  the  shapely  shipa 
That  with  his  knife  for  them  he  made 
Of  elder  slips. 

And  where  the  flowers  were  thickest  shed. 

Each  blossom  like  a  burnished  gem, 
A  creeping  baby  reared  its  head, 
And  cooed  at  them. 

And  calm  was  on  the  father''s  face. 

And  love  was  in  the  mother's  eyes ; 
She  looked  and  listened  from  her  place, 
In  tender  wise. 

She  did  not  need  to  raise  her  voice 

That  they  might  hear,  she  sat  so  nigh ; 
Yet  we  could  speak  when  'twas  our  choice, 
And  soft  reply. 

Holding  our  quiet  talk  apart 

Of  household  things  ;  till,  all  unsealed, 
The  guarded  outworks  of  the  heart 
Began  to  yield ; 


THE   LETTER   L.  163 

And  much  that  prudence  will  not  dip 

The  pen  to  fix  and  send  away, 
Passed  safely  over  from  the  lip 
That  summer  day. 

*'  I  should  be  happy,"  with  a  look 

Towards  her  husband  where  he  lay, 
Lost  in  the  pages  of  his  book, 
Soft  did  she  say. 

•'  I  am,  and  yet  no  lot  below 

For  one  whole  day  eludeth  care ; 
To  marriage  all  the  stories  flow, 
And  finish  there : 

"As  if  with  marriage  came  the  end, 

The  entrance  into  settled  rest. 
The  calm  to  which  love's  tossings  tend. 
The  quiet  breast. 

* '  For  me  love  played  the  low  preludes. 

Yet  life  began  but  with  the  ring, 
Such  infinite  solicitudes 
Around  it  cling. 


164  THE   LETTER   L. 

' '  I  did  not  for  my  heart  divine 

Her  destiny  so  meek  to  grow  ; 
The  higher  nature  matched  with  mine 
Will  have  it  so. 

*'  Still  I  consider  it,  and  still 

Acknowledge  it  my  master  made, 
Above  me  by  the  steadier  will 
Of  nought  afraid. 

' '  Above  me  by  the  candid  speech ; 

The  temperate  judgment  of  its  own  ; 
The  keener  thoughts  that  grasp  and  reach 
At  things  unknown. 

"  But  I  look  up  and  he  looks  down, 

And  thus  our  married  eyes  can  meet ; 
Unclouded  his,  and  clear  of  frown. 
And  gravely  sweet. 

"  And  yet,  O  good,  O  wise  and  true  ! 

I  would  for  all  my  fealty. 
That  I  could  be  as  much  to  you 

As  you  to  me  ; 


THE   LETTER   L.  16J 

"  And  knew  the  deep  secure  content 

Of  wives  who  have  been  hardly  won, 
And,  long  petitioned,  gave  assent, 
Jealous  of  none. 

*'  But  proudly  sure  in  all  the  earth 
Xo  other  in  that  homage  shares. 
Nor  other  womau''s  face  or  worth 
Is  prized  as  theirs," 

I  said :  '  'Ami  yet  no  lot  heloio 

For  one  loliolc  day  elucleth  care. 
Your  thought."     She  answered,  "  Ev£n  so. 
I  would  beware 

*'  Regretful  questionings  ;  be  sure 
That  very  seldom  do  they  rise. 
Nor  for  myself  do  I  endure  — 
I  sj-mpathize. 

"  For  once  "  —  she  turned  away  her  head. 
Across  the  grass  she  swept  her  hand  — 
"  There  was  a  letter  once,"  she  said, 
"  Upon  the  sand." 


166  THE   LETTER  L. 

•'  There  was,  in  truth,  a  letter  writ 

On  sand,"  I  said,  "  and  swept  from  view; 
But  that  same  hand  which  fashioned  it 
Is  given  to  you. 

"Efface  the  letter;  wherefore  keep 

An  image  which  the  sands  forego  ?  " 
"  Albeit  that  fear  had  seemed  to  sleep," 
She  answered  low, 

•'  I  could  not  choose  but  wake  it  now ; 

For  do  but  turn  aside  your  face, 
A  house  on  yonder  hilly  brow 
Your  eyes  may  trace. 

"  The  chestnut  shelters  it ;  ah  me, 
That  I  should  have  so  faint  a  heart ! 
But  yestereve,  as  by  the  sea 
I  sat  apart, 

'*  I  heard  a  name,  I  saw  a  hand 

Of  passing  stranger  point  that  way  — 
And  will  he  meet  her  on  the  strand. 
When  late  we  stray  ? 


THE   LETTER   L.  167 

•'  For  she  is  come,  for  she  is  there, 
I  heard  it  in  the  dusk,  and  heard 
Admiring  words,  that  named  her  fair, 
But  little  stirred 

"  By  beauty  of  the  wood  and  wave. 
And  weary  of  an  old  man's  sway ; 
For  it  was  sweeter  to  enslave 
Than  to  obey." 

—  The  voice  of  one  that  near  us  stood, 

The  rustle  of  a  silken  fold, 
A  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
A  gleam  of  gold  ! 

A  lady !     In  the  narrow  space 

Between  the  husband  and  the  wife. 
But  nearest  him  —  she  showed  a  face 
With  dangers  rife ; 

A  subtle  smile  that  dimpling  fled. 

As  night-black  lashes  rose  and  fell : 
I  looked,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"The  letter  L." 


168  THE   LETTER    L. 

He,  too,  looked  up,  and  with  arrest 

Of  breath  and  motion  held  his  gaze. 
Nor  cared  to  hide  within  his  breast 
His  deep  amaze ; 

Nor  spoke  till  on  her  near  advance 

His  dark  cheek  flushed  a  ruddier  hue ; 
And  with  his  change  of  countenance 
Hers  altered  too. 

"  Lenore  ! "  his  voice  was  like  the  cry 

Of  one  entreating  ;  and  he  said 
But  that  —  then  paused  with  such  a  sigh 
As  mourns  the  dead. 

And  seated  near,  with  no  demur 

Of  bashful  doubt  she  silence  broke, 
Though  I  alone  could  answer  her 
When  first  she  sjjoke. 

She  looked  :  her  eyes  were  beauty's  own ; 

She  shed  their  sweetness  into  his ; 
Nor  spared  the  married  wife  one  moan 
That  bitterest  is. 


THE  LETTER  L.  169 

She  spoke,  and  lo,  her  loveliness 

Methought  she  damaged  with  her  tongue  ; 
And  every  sentence  made  it  less, 
So  false  they  rung. 

The  rallying  voice,  the  light  demand, 

Half  flippant,  half  unsatisfied ; 
The  vanity  sincere  and  bland  — 
The  answers  wide. 

And  now  her  talk  was  of  the  East, 

And  next  her  talk  was  of  the  sea ; 
"And  has  the  love  for  it  increased 
You  shared  with  me  ?  " 

He  answered  not,  but  grave  and  still 

With  earnest  eyes  her  face  perused, 
And  locked  his  lips  with  steady  will, 
As  one  that  mused  — 

That  mused  and  wondered.     Why  his  gaze 

Should  dwell  on  her,  methought,  was  plain ; 
But  reason  that  should  wonder  raise 
I  sought  in  vain. 


170  THE   LETTER  L. 

And  near  and  near  the  cliildren  drew, 

Attracted  by  her  rich  array, 
And  gems  that  trembling  into  view 
Like  raindrops  lay. 

He  spoke  :  the  wife  her  baby  took 

And  pressed  the  little  face  to  hers ; 
What  pain  soe'er  her  bosom  shook, 
What  jealous  stirs 

Might  stab  her  heart,  she  hid  them  so. 

The  cooing  babe  a  veil  supplied ; 
And  if  she  listened  none  might  know. 
Or  if  she  sighed ; 

Or  if  forecasting  grief  and  care 

Unconscious  solace  thence  she  drew, 
And  lulled  her  babe,  and  unaware 
Lulled  sorrow  too. 

The  lady,  she  interpreter 

For  looks  or  language  wanted  none. 
If  yet  dominion  stayed  with  her  — 
So  lightly  won ; 


THE  LETTER  L.  171 

If  yet  the  heart  she  wounded  sore 

Could  yearn  to  her,  and  let  her  see 
The  homage  that  was  evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If  sign  would  yield  that  it  had  bled, 
Or  rallied  from  the  faithless  blow. 
Or  sick  or  sullen  stooped  to  wed, 
She  craved  to  know. 

Now  dreamy  deep,  now  sweetly  keen, 

Her  asking  eyes  would  round  him  shine ; 
But  guarded  lips  and  settled  mien 
Refused  the  sign. 

And  unbeguiled  and  unbetrayed, 

The  wonder  yet  within  his  breast. 
It  seemed  a  watchful  part  he  played 
Against  her  quest. 

Until  with  accent  of  regret 

She  touched  upon  the  past  once  more. 
As  if  she  dared  him  to  forget 
His  dream  of  vore. 


172  THE   LETTER   L. 

And  words  of  little  weight  let  fall 

The  fancy  of  the  lower  mind ; 
How  waxing  life  must  needs  leave  all 
Its  best  behind ; 

How  he  had  said  that  "  he  would  fain 

(One  morning  on  the  halcyon  sea) 
That  life  would  at  a  stand  remain 
Eternally ; 

"And  sails  be  mirrored  in  the  deep, 
As  then  they  were,  for  evermore, 
And  happy  spirits  wake  and  sleep 
Afar  from  shore : 

"  The  well-contented  heart  be  fed 
Ever  as  then,  and  all  the  world 
(It  were  not  small)  unshadowed 
When  sails  were  furled. 

"Your  words"  — a  pause,  and  quietly 

With  touch  of  calm  self-ridicule  : 
"  It  may  be  so  —  for  then,"  said  he, 
"  I  was  a  fool." 


THE   LETTER   L.  173 

"With  that  he  took  his  book,  and  left 

An  awkward  silence  to  my  care, 
That  soon  I  filled  with  questions  deft 
And  debonair ; 

And  slid  into  an  easy  vein, 

The  favorite  picture  of  the  year ; 
The  grouse  upon  her  lord's  domain  — 
The  salmon  weir ; 

Till  she  could  feign  a  sudden  thought 

Upon  neglected  guests,  and  rise, 
And  make  us  her  adieux,  with  nought 
In  her  dark  eyes 

Acknowledging  or  shame  or  pain  ; 
But  just  unveiling  for  our  view 
A  little  smile  of  still  disdain 
As  she  withdrew. 

Then  nearer  did  the  sunshine  creep. 

And  warmer  came  the  wafting  breeze ; 
The  little  babe  was  fast  asleep 
On  mother's  knees. 


174  THE   LETTER   L. 

Fair  was  the  face  that  o'er  it  leant, 

The  cheeks  with  beauteous  blushes  dyed ; 
The  downcast  lashes,  shyly  bent, 
That  failed  to  hide 

Some  tender  shame.     She  did  not  see ; 
She  felt  his  eyes  that  would  not  stir, 
She  looked  upon  her  babe,  and  he 
So  looked  at  her. 

So  grave,  so  wondering,  so  content, 

As  one  new  waked  to  conscious  life. 
Whose  sudden  joy  with  fear  is  blent. 
He  said,  "  My  wife." 

"  My  wife,  how  beautiful  you  are  ! " 

Then  closer  at  her  side  reclined, 
"  The  bold  brown  woman  from  afar 
Comes,  to  me  blind. 

"  And  by  comparison,  I  see 

The  majesty  of  matron  grace, 
And  learn  how  pure,  how  fair  can  be 
My  own  wife's  face  : 


THE   LETTEK   L.  17» 

"Pure  with  all  faithful  passion,  fair 

With  tender  smiles  that  come  and  go ; 
And  comforting  as  April  air 
After  the  snow, 

"  Fool  that  I  was  !  my  sjiirit  frets 

And  marvels  at  the  humbling  truth, 
That  I  have  deigned  to  spend  regrets 
On  my  bruised  youth. 

"  Its  idol  mocked  thee,  seated  nigh, 

And  shamed  me  for  the  mad  mistake ; 
I  thank  my  God  He  could  deny, 
And  she  forsake. 

"Ah,  who  am  I,  that  God  hath  saved 

Me  from  the  doom  I  did  desire. 
And  crossed  the  lot  myself  had  craved, 
To  set  me  higher  ? 

"  What  have  I  done  that  He  should  bow 
From  heaven  to  choose  a  wife  for  me  ? 
And  what  deserved.  He  should  endow 
My  home  with  thee  ? 


176  THE   LETTER  L. 

"  My  wife  ! "     With  that  she  turned  her  face 

To  kiss  the  hand  about  her  neck ; 
And  I  went  down  and  sought  the  place 
Where  leaped  the  beck  — 

The  busy  beck,  that  still  would  run 

And  fall,  and  falter  its  refrain  ; 
And  pause  and  shimmer  in  the  sun. 
And  fall  again. 

It  led  me  to  the  sandy  shore, 

We  sang  together,  it  and  I  — 
"The  daylight  comes,  the  dark  is  o'er. 
The  shadows  fly." 

I  lost  it  on  the  sandy  shore, 

"  O  wife  !  "  its  latest  murmurs  fell, 
•'  O  wife,  be  glad,  and  fear  no  more 
The  letter  L." 


177 


THE  HIGH  Tn)E  ON  THE   COAST  OF  LIN- 
COLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

JHE  old  mayor   climbed   the   belfry 
tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three  ; 
"Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before; 
Good  ringers,   pull  your   best," 
quoth  he. 
"Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 

Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.' " 


Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 
12 


t 


178  THE   HIGH   TIDE. 

And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 
The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore. 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  ; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth. 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

*'  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  ! "  calling. 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth. 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song  — 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling : 


THE   HIGH   TIDE.  179 

Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow. 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips-  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  Ibllow, 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago. 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow. 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong ; 

And  aU  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee. 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee). 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Euderby. 

AUe  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay. 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 
Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene ; 


180         "  TIIE   HIGH   TIDE. 

And  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
'     That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath. 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free. 
The  "Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky. 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie. 
And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,  "  And  why  should  this  thing  be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  ! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyi'atc  galleys  warping  down  ; 

For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 
They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne : 


THE   HIGH   TIDE.  181 

But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee, 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  '  ?  " 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonue 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main : 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 

The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace. 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  saith; 
"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  her  way. 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long ; 

And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milkiusr  song." 


182  THE   HIGH   TIDE. 

He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "Ho  Enderby  !  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby !  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For,  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  tlie  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout- 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 
Tlie  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 

Before  a  shallow  seething  Avave 
Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 


THE   HIGH   TIDE.  183 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night. 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by ; 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high  — 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ; 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 


184  THE   HIGH   TIDE. 

Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass. 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manye  more  than  rayne  and  raee  : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith). 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.^ 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
♦'Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha ! "  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  flowetb, 

Goeth,  floweth ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth. 
When  the  water  winding  down. 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 


THE   niGII   TIJ)K. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 


185 


186 


ATTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

(the  parson's  brother,  sister,  and  two  children.) 

Preface. 


HAT  wonder  man  should  fall  to  stay 
A  nursling  ■walled  from  above, 
The  growth  celestial  come  astray, 
That  tender  growth  whose  name 
is  Love ! 


It  is  as  if  high  winds  in  heaven 
Had  shaken  the  celestial  trees. 

And  to  this  earth  below  had  given 

Some  feathered  seeds  from  one  of  these. 

O  perfect  love  that  'dureth  long  ! 

Dear  growth,  that  shaded  by  the  palms, 
And  breathed  on  by  the  angel's  song, 

Blooms  on  in  heaven's  eternal  calms  ! 


AFTERNOON    AT   A   PARSONAGE.  187 

How  great  the  task  to  guard  thee  here, 
Where  wind  is  rough,  and  frost  is  keen, 

And  all  the  ground  with  doubt  and  fear 
Is  chequered  birth  and  death  between ! 

Space  is  against  thee  —  it  can  j^art ; 

Time  is  against  thee  —  it  can  chill ; 
Words  —  they  but  render  half  the  heart ; 

Deeds  —  they  are  poor  to  our  rich  will. 


Merton.     Though   she   had   loved   me,    I  had   neve; 

bound 
Her  beauty  to  my  darkness ;  that  had  been 
Too  hard  for  her.     Sadder  to  look  so  near 
Into  a  face  all  shadow,  than  to  stand 
Aloof,  and  then  withdraw,  and  afterwards 
Suffer  forgetfulness  to  comfort  her. 
I  think  so,  and  I  loved  her ;  therefore  I 
Have  no  complaint ;  albeit  she  is  not  mine  : 
And  yet  —  and  yet,  withdrawing  I  would  fain 
She  would  have  pleaded  duty  —  would  have  said 


188        AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

"My  father  wills  it ;  "  would  have  turned  away. 

As  lingering,  or  unwillingly  ;  for  then 

She  would  have  done  no  damage  to  the  past : 

Now  she  has  roughly  used  it  —  flung  it  down 

And  brushed  its  bloom  away.     If  she  had  said, 

"  Sir,  I  have  promised;  therefore,  lo  !  my  hand"  — 

Would  I  have  taken  it  ?     Ah  no  !  by  all 

Most  sacred,  no ! 

I  would  for  my  sole  share 
Have  taken  first  her  recollected  blush 
The  day  I  won  her  ;  next  her  shining  tears  — 
The  tears  of  our  long  parting ;  and  for  all 
The  rest — her  cry,  her  bitter  heart-sick  cry, 
That  day  or  night  (I  know  not  Avhloh  it  was. 
The  days  being  always  night),  that  darkest  night, 
When  being  led  to  her  I  heard  her  cry, 
"O  blind!  blind!  blind!" 

Go  Avith  thy  chosen  mate  : 
The  fashion  of  thy  going  nearly  cured 
The  sorrow  of  it.     I  am  yet  so  weak 
That  lialf  my  thoughts  go  after  thee  ;  but  not 
So  weak  that  I  desire  to  have  it  so. 


f 


AFTERNOON   AT   A   PARSONAGE.  189 


Jessie,  seated  at  the  piano,  sinr/s. 

When  the  dimpled  water  slippeth, 

Fidl  of  laughter,  on  its  way. 
And  her  wing  the  wagtail  dippeth, 

Running  by  the  brink  at  pla}'; 
When  the  poplar  leaves  atremble 

Turn  their  edges  to  the  light, 
And  the  far-up  clouds  resemble 

Veils  of  gauze  most  clear  and  white ; 
And  the  simbeauis  fall  and  tlatter 

Woodland  moss  and  branches  brown, 
And  the  glossy  finches  chatter 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down : 
Though  the  heart  be  not  attending. 

Having  music  of  her  own. 
On  the  grass,  through  meadows  wending, 

It  is  sweet  to  walk  alone. 

When  the  falling  waters  utter 

Something  mournful  on  their  way, 
4.nd  departing  swallows  flutter, 

Taking  leave  of  bank  and  brae ; 
When  the  chalHnch  idly  sitteth 

With  her  mate  upon  the  sheaves, 
And  the  wistful  robin  flitteth 

Over  beds  of  yellow  leaves; 


190        AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

When  the  clouds,  like  ghosts  that  ponder 

Evil  fate,  float  by  and  frown. 
And  the  listless  wind  doth  wander 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down : 
Though  the  heart  be  not  attending, 

Having  sorrows  of  her  own. 
Through  the  fields  and  fallows  wending, 

It  is  sad  to  walk  alone. 

Merton.     Blind  !  blind  !  blind  ! 
Oh !  sitting  in  the  dark  for  evermore, 
And  doing  nothing  —  putting  out  a  hand 
To  feel  what  lies  about  me,  and  to  say 
Not  "  This  is  blue  or  red,"  but  "  This  is  cold, 
And  this  the  sun  is  shining  on,  and  this 
I  know  not  till  they  tell  its  name  to  me." 

O  that  I  might  behold  once  more,  my  God ! 
The  shining  rulers  of  the  night  and  day ; 
Or  a  star  twinkling  ;  or  an  almond-tree. 
Pink  with  her  blossom  and  alive  with  bees. 
Standing  against  the  azure  !     O  my  sight ! 
Lost,  and  yet  living  in  the  simlit  colls 
Of  memory  —  that  only  lightsome  place 
"Where  lingers  yet  the  dayspring  of  my  youth : 
The  years  of  mourning  for  thy  death  are  long. 


I 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAQE.         191 

Be  kind,  sweet  memory  !     O  desert  me  not ! 

For  oft  thou  show'st  me  lucent  opal  seas. 

Fringed  with  their  cocoa-palms,  and  dwarf  red  crags, 

Whereon  the  placid  moon  doth  "  rest  her  chin  ;  " 

For  oft  by  favor  of  thy  visitings 

I  feel  the  dimness  of  an  Indian  night, 

And  lo  !  the  sun  is  coming.     Red  as  rust 

Between  the  latticed  blind  his  presence  burns, 

A  ruby  ladder  running  up  the  wall  ; 

And  all  the  dust,  printed  with  pigeons'  feet. 

Is  reddened,  and  the  crows  that  stalk  anear 

Begin  to  trail  for  heat  their  glossy  wings, 

And  the  red  flowers  give  back  at  once  the  dew. 

For  night  is  gone,  and  day  is  bom  so  fast, 

And  is  so  strong,  that,  huddled  as  in  flight. 

The  fleeting  darkness  paleth  to  a  shade. 

And  while  she  calls  to  sleep  and  dreams  "  Come  on," 

Suddenly  waked,  the  sleepers  rub  their  eyes. 

Which  having  opened,  lo  !  she  is  no  more. 

O  misery  and  mourning  !     I  have  felt  — 
Yes,  I  have  felt  like  some  deserted  world 
That  God  had  done  with,  and  had  cast  aside 
To  rock  and  stagger  through  the  gulfs  of  space. 


192  AFTERNOON  AT   A   PARSONAGE. 

He  never  looking  on  it  any  more  — 
Untilled,  no  use,  no  pleasure,  not  desired. 
Nor  lighted  on  by  angels  in  their  flight 
From  heaven  to  happier  planets,  and  the  race 
That  once  had  dwelt  on  it  withdrawn  or  dead. 
Could  such  a  world  have  hope  that  some  blest  day 
God  would  remember  her,  and  fashion  her 
Anew? 

Jessie.  What,  dearest  ?     Did  you  speak  to  me  ? 

Child.  I  think  he  spoke  to  us. 

M.  No,  little  elves, 

You  were  so  quiet  that  I  half  forgot 
Your  neighborhood.     What  are  you  doing  there  ? 

J.  They  sit  together  on  the  window-mat 
Nursing  their  dolls. 

C.  Yes,  Uncle,  our  new  dolls  — 

Our  best  dolls,  that  you  gave  us. 

M.  Did  you  say 

The  afternoon  was  bright  ? 

J.  Y6s,  bright  indeed  ! 

The  sun  is  on  the  plane-tree,  and  it  flames 
All  red  and  orange. 

C.  I  can  sec  my  father  — 

Look !  look  !  the  leaves  are  falling  on  his  gown. 


AFTERNOON   AT   A   PARSONAGE.  193 

M.  Where? 

C.  In    the    churchyard,    Uncle  —  he    is 

gone; 
He  passed  behind  the  tower. 

M.  I  heard  a  bell : 

There  is  a  funeral,  then,  behind  the  church. 

2nd  Child.    Are  the  trees  sorry  when  their  leaves 
drop  off  ? 

1st  Child.   You  talk  such  silly  words  ;  —  no,  not  at 
all. 
There  goes  another  leaf. 

2nd  Child.  I  did  not  see. 

1st  Child.    Look!  on  the  grass,  between  the  little 
hills, 
Just  where  they  planted  Amy. 

J.  Amy  died  — 

Dear  little  Amy  !  when  you  talk  of  her, 
Say,  she  is  gone  to  heaven. 

2nd  Child.  They  planted  her  — 

"Will  she  come  up  next  year  ? 

1st  Child.  No,  not  so  soon ; 

But  some  day  God  will  call  her  to  come  up. 
And  then  she  will.     Papa  knows  everything  — 
He  said  she  would  before  he  planted  her. 
13 


194         AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

2nd  Child.  It  was  at  night  slie  went  to  heaven.    Last 
night 
"We  saw  a  star  before  we  went  to  bed. 

1st  Child.    Yes,  Uncle,   did  you  know?      A  large 
bright  star, 
And  at  her  side  she  had  some  little  ones  — 
Some  young  ones. 

M.  Young  ones  !  no,  my  little  maid, 

Those  stars  are  very  old. 

1st  Child.  What !  all  of  them.P 

M.  Yes. 

1st  Child.  Older  than  our  father  ? 

M.  Older,  far. 

2nd  Child.     They  must  be  tired  of  shining  there  so 
long. 
Perhaps  they  wish  they  might  come  down. 

J.  Perhaps ! 

Dear  children,  talk  of  what  you  understand. 
Come,  I  must  lift  the  trailing  creepers  up 
That  last  night's  wind  has  loosened. 

1st  Child.  May  we  help? 

Aunt,  may  we  help  to  nail  them  ? 

J.  We  shall  see. 

Go,  find  and  bring  the  hammer,  and  some  shreds. 


AFTEKNOON   AT   A   PARSONAGE.  19J 


[^Steps  outside  the  window,  lifts  a  branch,  and  sings.^ 

Should  I  change  im'  allegiance  for  rancor 

If  fortune  changes  her  side  ? 
Or  should  I,  like  a  vessel  at  anchor, 

Turn  with  the  turn  of  the  tide  ? 
Lift!  0  lift,  thou  lowering  sky; 

An  thou  wilt,  thy  gloom  forego ! 
An  thou  wilt  not,  he  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drifts  of  snow. 


M.  \wUhiii\     Lift !  no,  thou  lowering  sky,  thou  wilt 
not  lift  — 
Thy  motto  readeth,  * '  Never." 

Children.  Here  they  are  ! 

Here  are  the  nails  !  and  may  we  help  ? 

J.  You  shall. 

If  I  should  want  help. 

1st  Child.  Will  you  want  it,  then? 

Please  want  it —  we  like  nailing. 

2nd  Child.  Yes,  we  do. 

J.     It  seems  I  ought  to  want  it ;  hold  the  bough, 
And  each  may  nail  in  turn. 


196  AFTERNOON   AT   A   PARSONAGE. 

losings.'] 

Like  a  daisy  I  was,  near  him  growing: 

Must  I  move  because  favors  flag, 
And  be  like  a  brown  wall-flower  blowing 

Far  out  of  reach  in  a  crag  ? 
Lift !  O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky ; 

An  thou  canst,  thy  blue  regain ! 
An  thou  canst  not,  he  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drops  of  rain. 

1st  Child.     Now,  have  we  nailed  enough? 

J.  [trains  the  creepers^     Yes,  you  may  go  ; 
But  do  not  play  too  near  the  churchyard  path. 

M.   [withiri]     Even  misfortune  does  not  strike  so 
near 
As  my  dependence.      O,  in  youth  and  strength 
To  sit  a  timid  coward  in  the  dark, 
And  feel  before  I  set  a  cautious  step ! 
It  is  so  very  dark,  so  far  more  dark 
Than  any  night  that  day  comes  after  —  night 
In  which  there  would  be  stars,  or  else  at  least 
The  silvered  portion  of  a  sombre  cloud 
Through  which  the  moon  is  plunging. 

J.  [mtering]  Merton! 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE.         197 

M.  Yes. 

J.     Dear  Merton,  did  you  know  that  I  could  hear  ? 

M.     No  :  e'en  my  solitude  is  not  mine  now, 
And  if  I  be  alone  is  ofttimes  doubt. 
Alas !  far  more  than  eyesight  have  I  lost ; 
For  manly  courage  drifteth  after  it  — 
E'en  as  a  splintered  spar  would  drift;  away 
From  some  dismasted  wreck.     Hear,  I  complain  — 
Lilie  a  weak  ailing  woman  I  complain. 

J.     For  the  first  time. 

M.  I  cannot  bear  the  dark. 

J.     My  brother  !  you  do  bear  it  —  bear  it  well  — 
Have  borne  it  twelve  long  months,  and  not  complained. 
Comfort  your  heart  with  music  :  all  the  air 
Is  warm  with  sunbeams  where  the  organ  stands. 
You  like  to  feel  them  on  you.     Come  and  play. 

M.     My  fate,  my  fate  is  lonely  ! 

J".  So  it  is  — 

I  know  it  is. 

M.  And  pity  breaks  my  heart. 

J.     Does  it,  dear  Merton  ? 

M.  Yes,  I  say  it  does. 

What !  do  you  think  I  am  so  dull  of  ear 
That  I  can  mark  no  changes  in  the  tones 


198  AFTERNOOK   AT   A   PARSONAGE. 

That  reach  me  ?     Once  I  liked  not  girlish  pride 

And  that  coy  quiet,  chary  of  reply, 

That  held  me  distant :  now  the  sweetest  lips 

Open  to  entertain  me  —  fairest  hands 

Are  proffered  me  to  guide. 

J.  That  is  not  well  ? 

M.     ISo  :  give  me  coldness,  pride,  or  still  disdain. 
Gentle  withdrawal.     Give  me  anything 
But  this  —  a  fearless,  sweet,  confiding  ease. 
Whereof  I  may  expect,  I  may  exact, 
Considerate  care  and  have  it  —  gentle  speech. 
And  have  it.     Give  me  anything  but  this  ! 
For  they  who  give  it,  give  it  in  the  faith 
That  I  will  not  misdeem  them,  and  forget 
My  doom  so  far  as  to  perceive  thereby 
Hope  of  a  wife.     They  make  this  thought  too  plain ; 
They  wound  me  —  O  they  cut  me  to  the  heart ! 
When  have  I  said  to  any  one  of  them, 
"  I  am  a  blind  and  desolate  man  ;  —  come  here, 
I  pray  you  —  be  as  eyes  to  me  ?  "    When  said, 
Even  to  her  whose  pitying  voice  is  sweet 
To  my  dark  ruined  heart,  as  must  be  hands 
a'hat  clasp  a  lifelong  captive's  through  the  grate, 
And  who  wiU  ever  lend  her  delicate  aid 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE.         199 

To  guide  me,  dark  incumbrance  that  I  am!  — 
AMien  have  I  said  to  her,  "  Comforting  voice. 
Belonging  to  a  face  unknown,  I  pray 
Be  my  wife's  voice  ?  " 

J.  Never,  my  brother — no. 

You  never  have  ! 

M.  What  could  she  think  of  me 

If  I  forgot  myself  so  far  ?  or  what 
Could  she  reply  ? 

J.  You  ask  not  as  men  ask 

Who  care  for  an  opinion,  else  perhaps. 
Although  I  am  not  sure  —  although,  pei-haps, 
I  have  no  right  to  give  one  —  I  should  say 
She  would  reply,  ' '  I  will !  " 


Afterfhought. 

Man  dwells  apart,  though  not  alone, 
He  walks  among  his  peers  imread ; 

The  best  of  thoughts  which  he  hath  known, 
For  lack  of  listeners  are  not  said. 


200  AFTERNOON   AT   A   PARSONAGE. 

Yet  dreaming  on  earth's  clustered  isles, 
He  saith,  "  They  dwell  not  lone  like  men, 

Forgetful  that  their  sunflecked  smiles 
Flash  far  beyond  each  other's  ken. 

He  looks  on  God's  eternal  suns 
That  sprinkle  the  celestial  blue. 

And  saith,  "  Ah  !  happy  shining  ones, 

I  would  that  men  were  grouped  like  you  ! " 

Yet  this  is  sure  :  the  loveliest  star 
That  clustered  with  its  peers  we  see, 

Only  because  from  us  so  far 

Doth  near  its  fellows  seem  to  be. 


201 


SONGS  OF  SEVEN". 


SEVEN   TIMES    ONE.      EXULTATION. 


HERE'S  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies 
and  clover, 
There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  : 
Tve  said  my  "seven  times"  over 
and  over, 
Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 


O  moon !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low  ; 
You  were  bright !  ah  bright !  but  your  light  is  failing  ■ 

You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 


202  SONGS   OF   SEVEN. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven 

That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 
I  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 


O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 
You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold ! 

O  brave  marsh  marybuds,  rich  and  yellow. 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold ! 


O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

O  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  purple  clai^per 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 


And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones  in  it ; 

I  will  not  steal  them  away ; 
I  am  old!  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet  — 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 


SONGS   OF   SEVEN.  203 


SEVEN   TIMES   TWO.      ROMANCE. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your  changes, 

How  many  soever  they  be, 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as  he  i-anges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 


Yet  bird's  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by  swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys. 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of  telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 


"  Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang  cheerily, 

AVhile  a  boy  listened  alone  ; 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 


Poor  bells  !  I  forgive  you ;  your  good  days  are  over. 

And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be  ; 
No  listening,  no  longing  shall  aught,  aught  discover : 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 


204  SONGS    OF   SEVEN. 

The  foxglove  shoots  out  of  the  green  matted  heather, 

Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow  ; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny  weather : 

O,  children  take  long  to  grow. 


[  wish,  and  I  wish  that  the  spring  would  go  faster. 

Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late  ; 
/^nd  I  could  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and  aster. 

For  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 


I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall  discover. 
While  dear  hands  are  laid  on  my  head ; 

"  The  child  is  a  woman,  the  book  may  close  over. 
For  all  the  lessons  are  said." 


I  wait  for  my  story  —  the  birds  cannot  sing  it, 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  O  bring  it ! 

Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 


SONGS   OF   SEVEN.  205 


SEVEN    TIME   THREE.      LOVE, 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover. 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate ; 
"Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover  — 
Hush,  nightingale,  hush  !     O,  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near. 
For  my  love  be  is  late ! 


"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree. 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer : ' 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  grow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow. 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 


"  You  night  moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 
From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep  ; 

You  glowworms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 


206  SONGS   OF   SEVEN. 

Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep  — 

*'  Too  deep  for  swift  telling  ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
By  the   sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white 
clover. 
Then  all  the  sweet   speech  I   had  fashioned  took 
flight; 

But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before. 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 


SE"S^N   TIMES   FOUR.      MATERNITY. 

Heigh  ho  !  daises  and  buttercups. 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 
When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in  the  grasses. 

And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender  and  small ! 
Here's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here's  mother's  own  lasses, 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 


SONGS   OF   SEVEN.  207 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups  ! 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain ; 
Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge  sparrow, 

That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved  them  full  fain ; 
Sing,  "  Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the  house  be  but 
narrow  "  — 

Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 


Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and  they  bow ; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters. 

And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her  prow. 
O  bonny  brown  sons,  and  O  sweet  little  daughters. 
Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now  ! 


Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall  — 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure, 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow  and  thrall ! 
Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  passing  its  mea- 
sure, 

God  that  is  over  us  all !  ' 


208  SONGS   OF   SEVEN^. 


SEVEN   TIMES   FIVE.       WIDOWHOOD. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 

Before  I  am  well  awake  ; 
"  Let  me  bleed  !     O  let  me  alone, 

Since  I  must  not  break  ! " 


For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sleep 
With  a  stone  at  foot  and  at  head : 

O  sleepless  God,  for  ever  keep, 
Keep  both  living  and  dead  .' 


I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  what  to  see 
But  a  world  happy  and  fair ! 

I  have  not  wished  it  to  mourn  with  me  ■ 
Comfort  is  not  there. 


O  what  anear  but  golden  brooms. 

And  a  waste  of  reedy  rills  ! 
O  Avhat  afar  but  the  fine  glooms 
^  On  the  rare  blue  hills ! 


SOXGS   OF   SEVEN.  209 

I  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlore  — 

How  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 
O  to  meet  thee,  my  love,  once  more  ! 

O  my  heart,  my  heart ! 


Xo  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  see ! 

O  that  an  echo  might  wake 
And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  me 

Ere  my  heart-strings  break ! 


I  should  know  it  how  faint  soe'er. 
And  with  angel  voices  blent ; 

O  once  to  feel  thy  spirit  anear ; 
I  could  be  content ! 


Or  once  between  the  gates  of  gold, 
While  an  entering  angel  trod, 

But  once  —  thee  sitting  to  behold 
On  the  hills  of  God  ! 


14 


210  SONGS   OF   SEVEN. 

SEVEN    TIMES    SIX.      GIVING   IN    MARRIAGE- 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 
To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear. 

Drawn  up  like  morning  dews  — 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose  : 
This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 

Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed. 

Will  let  no  longer  smart.  — 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

This  while  thou  didst  I  smiled. 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said. 

"  Mother,  give  me  thy  child."- 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind, 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find, 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears  — 


SONGS   OF   SEVEN.  211 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind, 

God  guards  iu  happier  spheres  ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 
Thy  mother's  tenderest  words  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  she  views  ; 
Thy  mothei-'s  lot,  my  dear, 

She  doth  in  nought  accuse  ; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  love  —  and  then  to  lose. 


SEVEN   TUIES    SEVEN.      LONGING   FOR   HOME. 
I. 

A  song  of  a  boat :  — 
There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow : 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like  snow, 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow, 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 


212  SONGS   OF   SEVEN. 

n. 
I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtseying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam. 
And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear  loved  home  ; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the  boat 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 

III. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat, 

For  it  is  but  short :  — 
My  boat,  you  shall  find  none  faii'er  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea. 
And  I  tliink  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly  shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me ! 

rv. 

A  song  of  a  nest :  — 
There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow : 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  pressed. 


SONGS   OF   SEVEX.  213 

Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  Itrim  — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim. 
With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

V. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long  :  — 
You  shall  never  light,  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

at:. 
I  had  a  nestful  once  of  vay  own, 
Ah  happy,  happy  I ! 
Right  dearly  I  loved  them :  but  when  they  were  grown 
They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly  — 
O,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 
And  —  1  wish  I  was  going  too. 


214  SONGS    OF   SEVEN. 

VII. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest  ? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was  set, 

Now  all  its  hope  hath  failed  ? 
Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went. 

And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  sent. 

The  only  home  for  me  — 

Ah  me ! 


215 


A  COTTAGE  IN  A  CHINE. 


E  reached  the  place  by  night, 

And  heard  the  waves  breaking : 
Thsy  came  to  meet  us  with  candles 
alight 
To  show  the  path  we  were  taking. 
A  myrtle,  trained  on  the  gate,  was 
white 
With  tufted  flowers  down  shaking. 


With  head  beneath  her  wing, 

A  little  wren  was  sleeping  — 
So  near,  I  had  found  it  an  easy  thing 

To  steal  her  for  my  keeping 
From  the  myrtle  bough  that  with  easy  swing 

Across  the  path  was  sweeping. 


Down  rocky  steps  rough-hewed. 

Where  cup-mosses  flowered. 
And  under  the  trees,  all  twisted  and  rude, 


216  A   COTTAGE   IX   A   CHINE. 

Wlierewitli  the  dell  was  dowered, 

They  led  us,  where  deep  in  its  solitude 

Lay  the  cottage,  leaf-embowered. 

The  thatch  was  all  bespread 

With  climbing  passion  flowers  ; 
They  were  wet,  and  glistened  with  raindrops,  shed 

That  day  in  genial  showers. 
"  Was  never  a  sweeter  nest,"  we  said, 

"  Than  this  little  nest  of  ours." 

We  laid  us  down  to  sleep : 

But  as  for  me  —  waking, 
I  marked  the  plunge  of  the  muffled  deep 

On  its  sandy  reaches  breaking  ; 
For  heart-joyance  doth  sometimes  keep 

From  slumber,  like  heart-aching. 

And  I  was  glad  that  night. 

With  no  reason  ready, 
To  give  my  own  heart  for  its  deep  delight, 

That  flowed  like  some  tidal  eddy. 
Or  shone  like  a  star  that  was  rising  bright 

With  comforting  radiance  steady. 


A   COTTAGE   LN   A   CHINE.  217 

But  on  a  sudden  —  hark ! 

Music  struck  asunder 
Those  meshes  of  bliss,  and  I  wept  in  the  dark. 

So  sweet  was  the  unseen  wonder ; 
So  swiftly  it  touched,  as  if  struck  at  a  mark. 

The  trouble  that  joy  kept  under. 

I  rose  —  the  moon  outshone  : 

I  saw  the  sea  heaving. 
And  a  little  vessel  sailing  alone. 

The  small  crisp  wavelet  cleaving ; 
'T  was  she  as  she  sailed  to  her  port  unknown  — 

Was  that  track  of  sweetness  leaving. 

We  know  they  music  made 

Li  heaven,  ere  man's  creation  ; 
But  when  God  threw  it  down  to  us  that  strayed, 

It  dropt  with  lamentation. 
And  ever  since  doth  its  sweetness  shade 

With  sighs  for  its  first  station. 

Its  joy  suggests  regret  — 

Its  most  for  more  is  yearning ; 
And  it  brings  to  the  soul  that  its  voice  hath  met 


218  A   COTTAGE   IN   A   CHINH. 

No  rest  that  cadence  learning, 
But  a  conscious  part  in  the  sighs  that  fret 
Its  nature  for  returning. 

0  Eve,  sweet  Eve  !  methought 
When  sometimes  comfort  winning. 

As  she  watched  the  first  children's  tenuer  sport, 

Sole  joy  born  since  her  sinning, 
If  a  bird  anear  them  sang,  it  brought 

The  pang  as  at  beginning. 

While  swam  the  unshed  tear, 

Her  prattlers  little  heeding, 
Would  murmur,  "  This  bii'd,  with  its  carol  clear. 

When  the  red  clay  was  kneaden. 
And  God  made  Adam  our  father  dear, 

Sang  to  him  thus  in  Eden." 

The  moon  went  in  —  the  sky 
And  earth  and  sea  hiding, 

1  laid  me  down,  with  the  yearning  sigh 
Of  that  strain  in  my  heart  abiding ; 

I  slept,  and  the  barque  that  had  sailed  so  nigh 
In  my  dream  was  ever  gliding. 


A   COTTAGE   IX    A   CHtNE.  219 

I  slept,  but  waked  amazed, 

With  sudden  noise  frighted, 
And  voices  without,  and  a  flash  that  dazed 

My  eyes  from  candles  lighted. 
"Ah. !  surely,"  methought,  "by  these  shouts  upraised. 

Some  travellers  are  benighted." 

A  voice  was  at  my  side  — 

"  Waken,  madam,  waken  ! 
The  long  prayed-for  ship  at  her  anchor  doth  ride. 

Let  the  child  from  its  rest  be  taken. 
For  the  captain  doth  weary  for  babe  and  for  bride  — 

Waken,  madam,  waken ! 

"The  home  you  left  but  late, 

He  speeds  to  it  light-hearted ; 
By  the  wires  he  sent  this  news,  and  straight 

To  you  with  it  they  started." 
O  joy  for  a  yearning  heart  too  great, 

O  union  for  the  parted  ! 

We  rose  up  in  the  night, 

The  morning  star  was  shining ; 
We  carried  the  child  in  its  slumber  light 


220  A   COTTAGE   IX   A   CHLNE. 

Out  by  the  myrtles  twining : 
Orion  over  the  sea  hung  bright. 
And  glorious  in  declining. 

Mother,  to  meet  her  son, 

Smiled  first,  then  wept  the  rather ; 
And  wife,  to  bind  up  those  links  undone. 

And  cherished  words  to  gather, 
And  to  show  the  face  of  her  little  one. 

That  had  never  seen  its  father. 

That  cottage  in  a  chine, 

We  were  not  to  behold  it ; 
But  there  may  the  purest  of  sunbeams  shine, 

May  freshest  flowers  enfold  it. 
For  sake  of  the  news  which  our  hearts  must  twine 

With  the  bower  where  we  were  told  it ! 

Now  oft,  left  lone  again, 

Sit  mother  and  sit  daughter, 
And  bless  the  good  ship  that  sailed  over  the  main, 

And  the  favoring  winds  that  brought  her  ; 
While  still  some  new  beauty  they  fable  and  feign 

For  the  cottage  by  the  water.  , 


221 


PERSEPHOXE. 


"Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  January,  1862. 


Subject  given  —  "  Li(/ht  and  Shade: 


HE  stepped  upon  Sicib'an  grass, 
Demeter's  daughter  fresh  and  fair, 
A  child  of  light,  a  radiant  lass, 

And  gamesome  as  the  morning  air. 
The  daffodils  were  fair  to  see. 
They  nodded  lightly  on  the  lea, 
Persephone  —  Persephone ! 


Lo  !  one  she  marked  of  rarer  growth 

Than  orchis  or  anemone  ; 
For  it  the  maiden  left  them  both, 

And  parted  from  her  company. 


222  LIGHT   AND   SHADE. 

Drawn  nigh  she  deemed  it  fairer  still, 
And  stooped  to  gather  by  the  rill 
The  daflfodil,  the  daffodil. 

What  ailed  the  meadow  that  it  shook  ? 

"What  ailed  the  air  of  Sicily  ? 
She  wondered  by  the  brattling  brook, 

And  trembled  with  the  trembling  lea. 
"  The  coal-black  horses  rise  —  they  rise  : 
O  mother,  mother  !  "  low  she  cries' — 
Persephone  —  Persephone ! 

"O  light,  light,  light!"  she  cries,  "farewell; 

The  coal-black  horses  wait  for  me. 
O  shade  of  shades,  where  I  must  dwell, 

Demeter,  mother,  far  from  thee ! 
Ah,  fated  doom  that  I  fulfil ! 
Ah,  fateful  flower  beside  the  rill ! 
The  daffodil,  the  daffodil ! " 

What  ails  her  that  she  comes  not  home  ? 

Demeter  seeks  her  far  and  wide, 
And  gloomy-browed  doth  ceaseless  roam 

From  many  a  morn  till  eventide. 


LIGHT   AND   SHADE.  223 

"  My  life,  immortal  though  it  be, 

Is  nought,"  she  cries,  "  for  want  of  thee, 

Persephone  —  Persephone ! 

"  Meadows  of  Enna,  let  the  rain 

No  longer  drop  to  feed  your  rills. 
Nor  dew  refresh  the  fields  again, 

With  all  their  nodding  daffodils  ! 
Fade,  fade  and  droop,  O  lilied  lea. 

Where  thou,  dear  heart,  wert  reft  from  me 

Persephone  —  Persephone  ! " 


She  reigns  upon  her  dusky  throne, 
'Mid  shades  of  heroes  dread  to  see ; 

Among  the  dead  she  breathes  alone, 
Persephone  —  Persephone ! 

Or  seated  on  the  Elysian  hill 

She  dreams  of  earthly  daylight  still. 

And  murmurs  of  the  daffodil. 

A  voice  in  Hades  soundeth  clear. 
The  shadows  mourn  and  flit  below ; 

It  cries  —  "  Thou  Lord  of  Hades,  hear, 
And  let  Demeter's  daughter  go. 


224  UGnX   AND   SHADE. 

The  tender  corn  upon  the  lea 

Droops  in  her  goddess  gloom  when  she 

Cries  for  her  lost  Persephone. 

"  Erom  land  to  land  she  raging  flies, 
The  green  fruit  flxlleth  in  her  wake. 

And  harvest  fields  beneath  her  eyes 
To  earth  the  grain  unripened  shake. 

Arise,  and  set  the  inaiden  free  ; 

Why  should  the  world  such  sorrow  dree 

By  reason  of  Persephone  ?  " 

lie  takes  the  cleft  pomegranate  seeds  : 
"  Love,  eat  with  me  this  parting  day ; 

Then  bids  them  fetch  the  coal-black  steeds  — 
"Demeter's  daughter,  wouldst  away?  " 

The  gates  of  Hades  set  her  free ; 

*'  She  will  return  full  soon,"  saith  he  — 

"  My  wife,  my  wife  Persephone." 

Low  laughs  the  dark  king  on  his  throne  — 
"I  gave  her  of  pomegranate  seeds." 

Demeter's  daughter  stands  alone 
Upon  the  fair  Eleusian  meads. 


LIGHT   AND   SHADE.  225 

Her  mother  meets  her.     "  Hall ! "  saitli  she ; 
"And  doth  our  daylight  dazzle  thee, 
My  love,  my  child  Persephone  ? 

"  What  moved  thee,  daughter,  to  forsake 

Thy  fellow-maids  that  fatal  morn. 
And  give  thy  dark  lord  power  to  take 

Thee  living  to  his  realm  forlorn  ?  " 
Her  lips  reply  without  her  will. 
As  one  addressed  who  slumbereth  still  — 
"  The  daffodil,  the  daffodil ! " 

Her  eyelids  droop  with  light  oppressed. 
And  sunny  wafts  that  round  her  stir. 

Her  cheek  upon  her  mother's  breast  — 
Dcmeter's  kisses  comfort  her. 

Calm  Queen  of  Hades,  art  thou  she 

Who  stepped  so  lightly  on  the  lea  — 

Persephone,  Persephone? 

When,  in  her  destined  course,  the  moon 
]\Ieets  the  deep  shadow  of  this  world, 

And  laboring  on  doth  seem  to  swoon 

Through  awful  wastes  of  dimness  whirled  — 
15 


226  LIGHT  AXB   SHADE. 

Emerged  at  length,  no  trace  hath  she 
Of  that  dark  hour  of  destiny, 
Still  silvery  sweet  —  Persephone. 

The  greater  world  may  near  the  less. 

And  draw  it  through  her  weltering  shade. 

But  not  one  biding  trace  impress 
Of  all  the  darkness  that  she  made ; 

The  greater  soul  that  di-aweth  thee 

Hath  left  his  shadoAv  plain  to  see 

On  thy  fair  face,  Persephone  ! 

Demeter  sighs,  but  sure  'tis  well 
The  wife  should  love  her  destiny : 

They  part,  and  yet,  as  legends  tell, 
She  mourns  her  lost  Persephone  ; 

While  chant  the  maids  of  Enna  still  — 

"  O  fateful  flower  beside  the  rill  — 

The  daffodil,  the  daffodil ! " 


227 


A  SEA  SONG. 

LD  ALBION  sat  on  a  crag  of  late. 
And  sung  out  —  "  Ahoy  !  ahoy  ! 
Long  life  to  the  captain,  good  luck 
to  the  mate, 
And  this  to  my  sailor  boy  ! 
Come  over,  come  home. 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam, 


My  sailor,  my  sailor  boy ! 


"  Here's  a  crovm  to  be  given  away,  I  ween, 

A  crown  for  my  sailor's  head. 
And  all  for  the  worth  of  a  widowed  queen. 
And  the  love  of  the  noble  dead. 
And  the  fear  and  fame 
Of  the  island's  name 
Where  my  boy  was  born  and  bred. 


228  A   SEA   SONG. 

"  Content  thee,  content  thee,  let  it  alone, 

Thou  marked  for  a  choice  so  rare  ; 
Though  treaties  be  treaties,  never  a  throne 
Was  proffered  for  cause  as  fair. 
Yet  come  to  me  home, 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam, 
For  the  Greek  must  ask  elsewhere. 

'"Tis  pity,  my  sailor,  but  who  can  tell? 

Many  lands  they  look  to  me  ; 
One  of  these  might  be  wanting  a  Prince  as  well. 
But  that's  as  hereafter  may  be/' 
She  raised  her  white  head 
And  laughed ;  and  she  said 
"  That's  as  hereafter  may  be."  • 


229 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 


|T  was  a  village  built  in  a  green  rent, 
Between  two   clilia   that   skirt  the 

dangerous  bay. 
A  reef  of  level  rock  runs  out  to  sea, 
^   And  you  may  lie  on  it  and  look 
sheer  down, 

Just  where  the  "  Grace  of  Sunderland"  was  lost. 
And  see  the  elastic  banners  of  the  dulse 
Rock  softly,  and  the  orange  star- fish  creep 
Across  the  laver,  and  the  mackerel  shoot 
Over  and  under  it,  like  silver  boats 
Turning  at  will  and  plying  under  water. 


There  on  that  reef  we  lay  upon  our  breasts. 
My  brother  and_^  I,  and  half  the  village  lads. 
For  an  old  fishermen  had  called  to  us 
With   "Sirs,   the  syle  be   come."       "And  what  are 
they  ?  " 


230  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMOX 

My  brother  said.     "  Good  la^k ! "'  iKe  oW  luan  cried, 
And  shook  his  head ;  "to  think  you  gen4'>folk 
Should  ask  what  syle  be  !     Look  you  ;  T  <;an't  say 
What  syle  be  called  in  your  fine  dictionaries, 
Nor  what  name  God  Almighty  calls  them  by 
When  their  food's  ready  and  He  sends  them  south ; 
But  our  folk  call  them  syle,  and  nought  but  syle. 
And  when  they're  grown,  why  then  we  call  them  her- 
ring. 
I  tell  you,  Sir,  the  water  is  as  full 
Of  them  as  pastures  be  of  blades  of  grass ;  , 

You'll  draw  a  score  out  in  a  landing  net. 
And  none  of  them  be  longer  than  a  pin. 

"  Syle  !  ay,  indeed,  we  should  be  badly  off, 
I  reckon,  and  so  would  God  Almighty's  gulls," 
He  grumbled  on  in  his  quaint  piety, 
•'  And  all  his  other  birds,  if  He  should  say 
I  will  not  drive  my  syle  into  the  south ; 
The  fisher  folk  may  do  without  my  syle, 
And  do  without  the  shoals  of  fish  it  draws 
To  follow  and  feed  on  it." 

This  said,  we  made 
Our  peace  with  liim  by  means  of  two  small  coins, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  231 

And  down  we  ran  and  lay  upon  the  reef, 

And  saw  the  swimming  infants,  emerald  green. 

In  separate  shoals,  the  scarcely  turning  ebb 

Bringing  them  in  ;  while  sleek,  and  not  intent 

On  chase,  but  taking  that  which  came  to  hand. 

The  full-fed  mackerel  and  the  gurnet  swam 

Between ;  and  settling  on  the  polished  sea, 

A  thousand  snow-white  gulls  sat  lovingly 

In  social  rings,  and  twittered  while  they  fed. 

The  village  dogs  and  ours,  elate  and  brave. 

Lay  looking  over,  barking  at  the  fish ; 

Fast,  fast  the  silver  creatures  took  the  bait. 

And  when  they  heaved  and  floundered  on  the  rock, 

In  beauteous  misery,  a  sudden  pat 

Some  shaggy  pup  would  deal,  then  back  away. 

At  distance  eye  them  with  sagacious  doubt, 

And  shrink  half  frighted  from  the  slippery  things. 

And  so  we  lay  from  ebb-tide,  till  the  flow 
Rose  high  enough  to  drive  us  from  the  reef; 
The  fisher  lads  went  home  across  the  sand ; 
We  climbed  the  clifi",  and  sat  an  hour  or  more. 
Talking  and  looking  down.     It  was  not  talk 
Of  much  significance,  excejit  for  this  — 


232  BROTHERS,   A]SD   A   SERMON. 

That  we  had  more  in  common  than  of  old. 
For  both  were  tired,  I  witli  overwork. 
He  with  inaction ;  I  was  glad  at  heart 
To  rest,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  an  ear 
That  he  could  grumble  to,  and  half  in  jest 
Rail  at  entails,  deplore  the  fate  of  heirs. 
And  the  misfortune  of  a  good  estate  — 
Misfortune  that  was  sure  to  pull  hini  down. 
Make  him  a  dreamy,  selfish,  useless  man : 
Indeed  he  felt  himself  deteriorate 
Already.     Thereupon  he  sent  down  showers 
Of  clattering  stones,  to  emphasize  his  words. 
And  leap  the  cliffs  and  tumble  noisily 
Into  the  seething  wave.     And  as  for  me, 
I  railed  at  him  and  at  ingratitude. 
While  rifling  of  the  basket  he  had  slung 
Across  his  shoulders  ;  then  with  right  good  will 
We  fell  to  work,  and  feasted  like  the  gods. 
Like  laborers,  or  like  eager  workhouse  folk 
At  Yuletide  dinner ;  or,  to  say  the  whole 
At  once,  like  tired,  hungry,  healthy  youth. 
Until  the  meal  being  o'er,  the  tilted  flask 
Drained  of  its  latest  drop,  the  meat  and  bread 
And  ruddy  cherries  eaten,  and  the  dogs 


BKOTHKRS,    ANP   A   SERMON.  233 

Mumbling  the  bones,  this  elder  brother  of  mine  — 

This  man,  that  never  felt  an  ache  or  pain 

In  his  broad,  well-knit  frame,  and  never  knew 

The  trouble  of  an  unforgiven  grudge, 

The  sting  of  a  regretted  meanness,  nor 

The  desperate  struggle  of  the  unendowed 

For  place  and  for  possession  —  he  began 

To  sing  a  rhpne  that  he  himself  had  vsrrought ; 

Sending  it  out  with  cogitative  pause. 

As  if  the  scene  where  he  had  shajied  it  first 

Had  rolled  it  back  on  him,  and  meeting  it 

Thus  unaware,  he  was  of  doul)tful  mind 

Whether  his  dignity  it  well  beseemed 

To  sing  of  pretty  maiden : 


Goldilocks  sat  on  the  grass, 

Tying  up  of  posies  rare ; 
Hardly  could  a  sunbeam  pass 

Through  the  cloud  that  was  her  hair. 
Purple  orchis  lasteth  long, 

Primrose  flowers  are  pale  and  clear; 
O  the  maiden  sang  a  fong 

It  would  do  you  good  to  hear ! 


234         BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

Sad  before  her  leaned  the  boy, 

"  Goldilocks  that  I  love  well, 
Happy  creature  fair  and  coy, 

Think  o'  me,  Sweet  Amabel." 
Goldilocks  she  shook  apart. 

Looked  with  doubtful,  doubtful  eyes; 
Like  a  blossom  on  her  heart 

Opened  out  her  first  surprise. 

As  a  gloriole  sign  o'  grace. 

Goldilocks,  ah  fall  and  flow, 
On  the  blooming,  childlike  face, 

Dimple,  dimple,  come  and  go. 
Give  her  time ;  on  grass  and  sky 

Let  her  gaze  if  she  be  fain : 
As  they  looked  ere  he  drew  nigh, 

They  will  never  look  again. 

Ah !  the  playtime  she  has  known. 

While  her  goldilocks  grew  long, 
Is  it  like  a  nestling  flown. 

Childhood  over  like  a  song? 
Yes,  the  boy  may  clear  liis  brow, 

Though  she  thinks  to  say  him  nay, 
When  she  sighs,  "  I  cannot  now  — 

Come  again  some  other  day." 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.         235 

"Hold  !  there,"  he  cried,  half  angry  with  himself; 

"  That  ending  goes  amiss  :  "  then  turned  again 

To  the  old  argument  that  we  had  held  — 

"  Now  look  you  !  "  said  my  brother,  *'  you  may  talk 

Till,  weary  of  the  talk,  I  answer  '  Ay, 

There's  reason  in  your  words  ; '  and  you  may  talk 

Till  I  go  on  to  say,  '  This  should  be  so ; ' 

And  you  may  talk  till  I  shall  further  own 

'  It  IS  so  ;  yes,  I  am  a  lucky  dog  ! ' 

Yet  not  the  less  shall  I  next  morning  wake, 

And  with  a  natural  and  fervent  sigh, 

Such  as  you  never  heaved,  I  shall  exclaim 

'  What  an  unlucky  dog  I  am  ! '  "     And  here 

He  broke  into  a  laugh.     "But  as  for  you  — 

You  !  on  all  hands  you  have  the  best  of  me ; 

Men  have  not  robbed  you  of  your  birthright  —  work, 

Nor  ravaged  in  old  days  a  peaoeful  field. 

Nor  wedded  heiresses  against  their  will. 

Nor  sinned,  nor  slaved,  nor  stooped,  nor  overreached, 

That  you  might  drone  a  useless  life  away 

'Mid  half  a  score  of  bleak  and  barren  farms 

And  half  a  dozen  bogs." 

"  0  rare  !"  I  cried; 
"  His  wrongs  go  nigh  to  make  him  eloquent: 


236  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

Now  we  behold  how  far  bad  actions  reach ! 

Because  five  hundred  years  ago  a  Knight 

Drove  geese  and  beeves  out  from  a  Franklin's  yard ; 

Because  three  hundred  years  ago  a  squire  — 

Against  her  will,  and  for  her  fair  estate  — 

Married  a  very  ugly,  red-haired  maid, 

The  blest  Inheritor  of  all  their  pelf. 

While  In  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  same, 

Sighs  on  his  own  confession  every  day. 

He  cracks  no  egg  without  a  moral  sigh,     • 

Nor  eats  of  beef  but  thinking  on  that  wrong ; 

Then,  yet  the  more  to  be  revenged  on  them. 

And  shame  their  ancient  pride,  if  they  should  know. 

Works  hard  as  any  horse  for  his  degree. 

And  takes  to  writing  verses." 

"  Ay,"  he  said. 
Half  laughing  at  himself.     "  Yet  you  and  I, 
But  for  those  tresses  which  enrich  us  yet 
AVith  somewhat  of  the  hue  that  jjartial  fame 
Calls  auburn  when  it  shines  on  heads  of  heirs, 
But  wlien  It  flames  round  brows  of  younger  sons. 
Just  red  —  mere  red  ;  why,  but  for  tliis,  I  say. 
And  but  for  selfish  getting  of  the  land. 
And  beggarly  entailing  it,  we  two, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.         237 

To-day  well  fed,  well  grown,  well  dressed,  well  read. 
We  might  have  been  two  horny-handed  boors  — 
Lean,  clumsy,  ignorant,  and  ragged  boors  — 
Planning  for  moonlight  nights  a  poaching  scheme. 
Or  soiling  our  dull  souls  and  consciences 
With  plans  for  pilfering  a  cottage  roost. 

"Wliat,  chorus!    are  you  dumb?   you   should   have 

cried, 
*  So  good  comes  out  of  evil ; '  "  and  with  that, 
As  if  all  pauses  it  was  natural 
To  seize  for  songs,  his  voice  broke  out  again : 

Coo,  dove,  to  thr  married  mate — 

She  has  two  warm  eggs  in  her  nest : 
Tell  her  the  hours  are  few  to  wait    . 

Ere  life  shall  dawn  on  their  rest; 
And  thy  young  shall  peck  at  the  shells,  elate 

"With  a  dream  of  her  brooding  breast. 

Coo,  dove,  for  she  counts  the  hours, 

Her  fair  wings  ache  for  flight : 
By  day  the  apple  has  grown  in  the  flowers. 

And  the  moon  has  grown  by  night, 
And  the  white  drift  settled  from  hawthorn  bowers, 

Yet  they  will  not  seek  the  light. 


238         BROTHEKS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

Coo,  dove ;  but  what  of  the  sky  ? 

And  what  if  the  storin-wind  swell, 
And  the  reeling  branch  come  down  from  on  high 

To  the  grass  where  daisies  dwell. 
And  the  brood  beloved  should  with  them  lie 

Or  ever  they  break  the  shell  ? 

Coo,  dove ;  and  yet  black  clouds  lower, 

Like  fate,  on  the  far-off  sea : 
Thunder  and  wind  they  bear  to  thy  bower, 

As  on  wings  of  destiny. 
Ah,  what  if  they  break  in  an  evil  hour, 

As  they  broke  over  mine  and  me  'I 

What  next  ?  —  we  started  like  to  girls,  for  lo ! 
The  ci'eaking  voice,  more  harsh  than  rusty  crane, 
Of  one  who  stooped  behind  us,  cried  aloud, 
*'  Good  lack  !  how  sweet  the  gentleman  does  sing  — 
So  loud  and  sweet,  'tis  like  to  split  his  throat. 
Why,  Mike's  a  child  to  him,  a  two-years  child  — 
A  Chrisom  child." 

"  Who's  Mike  ?  "  my  brother  growled 
A  little  roughly.     Quotli  the  fisherman  — 
"  Mike,  Sir?  he's  just  a  fisher  lad,  no  more; 
But  he  can  sing,  when  he  takes  on  to  sing. 


BROTHERS,    AND   A   SEUMON.  239 

So  loud  there's  not  a  sparrow  in  the  spire 
But  needs  must  liear.     Sir,  if  I  might  make  bold, 
I'd  ask  what  song  that  Avas  you  sung.     My  mate, 
As  we  were  shoving  off  the  mackerel  boats, 
Said  he,  '  I'll  wager  that's  the  sort  o'  song 
They  kept  their  hearts  up  with  in  the  Crimea.' " 

♦'  There,  fisherman,"  quoth  I,  "he  showed  his  wit. 
Your  mate ;  he  marked  the  sound  of  savage  war  — 
Gunpowder,  groans,  hot-shot,  and  bursting  shells. 
And  '  murderous  messages '  delivered  by 
Spent  balls  that  break  the  heads  of  dreaming  men." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Sir  !  "  quoth  the  fisherman.     "  Have  done  !" 

My  brother.     And  I  —  "  The  gift  belongs  to  few 

Of  sending  farther  than  the  words  can  reach 

Their  spirit  and  expression  ;  "  still  —  "  Have  done  ! " 

He  cried  ;  and  then,  "  I  rolled  the  rubbish  out 

More  loudly  than  the  meaning  warranted. 

To  air  my  lungs  —  I  thought  not  on  the  words." 

Then  said  the  fisherman,  who  missed  the  point, 

"  So  Mike  rolls  out  the  psalm  ;  you'll  hear  him,  Sir, 

Please  God  you  live  till  Sunday." 


240         BKOTHERS,  AKD  A  SKRMON. 

"  Even  so : 
And  you,  too,  fisherman  ;  for  here,  they  say, 
You  all  are  church-goers." 

"  Surely,  Sir,"  quoth  he. 
Took  off  his  hat,  and  stroked  his  old  white  head 
And  wrinkled  fixce ;  then  sitting  by  us  said. 
As  one  that  utters  with  a  quiet  mind 
Unchallenged  truth  —  "  'Tis  lucky  for  the  boats." 

The  boats  !  'tis  lucky  for  the  boats  !     Our  eyes 
Were  drawn  to  him  as  either  fain  would  say. 
What !  do  they  send  the  psalm  up  in  the  spire 
And  pray  because  'tis  lucky  for  the  boats  ? 

But  he,  the  brown  old  man,  the  wrinkled  man. 
That  all  his  life  had  been  a  church-goer, 
Familiar  with  celestial  cadences. 
Informed  of  all  he  could  receive,  and  sure 
Of  all  he  understood — he  sat  content. 
And  we  kept  silence.     In  his  reverend  face 
There  was  a  simpleness  we  could  not  sound ; 
Much  trutli  had  passed  liim  overhead  ;  some  error 
He  had  trod  under  foot  ;  —  God  comfort  him  ! 
He  could  not  lea''n  of  us,  for  we  were  young 


BROTHERS,    .VXD    A    SKR.MON.  241 

And  lie  was  old,  and  so  we  gave  it  up ; 
And  the  sun  went  into  the  west,  and  down 
Upon  the  watei"  stooped  an  orange  cloud, 
And  the  pale  milky  reaches  flushed,  as  glad 
To  wear  its  colors  ;  and  the  sultry  air 
Went  out  to  sea,  and  puffed  the  sails  of  ships 
With  thymy  wafts,  the  breath  of  trodden  grass : 
It  took  moreover  music,  for  across 
The  heather  belt  and  over  pasture  land 
Came  the  sweet  monotone  of  one  slow  bell, 
And  parted  time  into  divisions  rare, 
Whereof  each  morsel  brought  its  own  delight. 

"  They  ring  for  service,"  quoth  the  fisherman ; 
"  Our  parson  preaches  in  the  church  to-night." 

"  And  do  the  people  go  ?  "  my  brother  asked. 

"Ay,  Sir;  they  count  it  mean  to  stay  away, 
He  takes  it  so  to  heart.     He's  a  rare  man. 
Our  parson  ;  half  a  head  above  us  all." 

"  That's  a  great  gift  and  notable,"  said  I. 
16 


242.  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMON. 

"  Ay,  Sir ;  and  when  he  was  a  younger  man 

He  went  out  in  the  lifeboat  very  oft, 

Before  the  '  Grace  of  Sunderland '  was  wrecked. 

He's  never  been  his  own  man  since  that  hour ; 

For  there  were  thirty  men  aboard  of  her, 

Anigh  as  close  as  you  are  now  to  me. 

And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

They're  lying  now. 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row :  the  church 
And  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves,  and  few 
Have  any  names. 

She  bumped  upon  the  reef; 
Our  parson,  my  young  son,  and  several  more 
Were  lashed  together  with  a  two-inch  rope. 
And  crept  along  to  her ;  their  mates  ashore 
Ready  to  haul  them  in.     The  gale  was  high, 
The  sea  was  all  a  boiling  seething  froth. 
And  God  Almighty's  guns  were  going  off. 
And  the  laud  trembled. 

"When  she  took  the  ground. 
She  wont  to  pii^ces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
Tossed  from  a  pitchfoi-k.     Ere  it  came  to  that. 
The  captain  reeled  ou  deck  with  two  small  things. 


BUOTHEKS,    ^VXD   A   SERMON.  243 

One  in  each  arm  —  liis  little  lad  and  lass. 
Their  hair  was  long,  and  blew  before  his  face, 
Or  else  we  thought  he  had  been  saved ;  he  fell, 
But  held  them  hist.     The  crew,  poor  luckless  souls  ! 
The  breakers  licked  them  off;  and  some  were  crushed, 
Some  swallowed  in  the  yeast,  some  Hung  up  dead, 
The  dear  breath  beaten  out  of  them  :  not  one 
Jumped  from  the  wreck  upon  the  reef  to  catch 
The  hands  that  strained  to  reach,  but  tumbled  back 
With  eyes  wide  ojicn.     But  the  captain  lay 
And  clung  —  the  only  man  alive.     They  prayed  — 
'  For  God"'s  sake,  captain,  throw  the  children  here  ! ' 
*  Throw  them  ! '  our  parson  cried  ;  and  then  she  struck : 
And  he  threw  one,  a  pretty  two-years  child ; 
But  the  gale  dashed  him  on  the  slippery  verge. 
And  down  he  went.     They  say  they  heard  him  cry. 

"  Then  he  rose  up  and  took  the  other  one. 

And  all  our  men  reached  out  their  hungry  arms. 

And  cried  out,  '  Throw  her,  throw  her  ! '  and  he  did  : 

He  threw  her  right  against  the  parson's  breast, 

And  all  at  once  a  sea  broke  over  them. 

And  they  that  saw  it  from  the  shore  have  said 

It  struck  the  wreck  and  piecemeal  scattered  it, 


244  BROTHEES,    AND   A   SERMON. 

Just  as  a  ■woman  might  the  lump  of  salt 
That  'twixt  her  hands  into  the  kneading-pan 
She  breaks  and  crumbles  on  her  rising  bread. 

*•  We  hauled  our  men  in  :  two  of  them  were  dead- 
The  sea  had  beaten  them,  their  heads  hung  down ; 
Our  parson's  arms  were  empty,  for  the  wave 
Had  torn  away  the  pretty,  pretty  lamb ; 
We  often  see  him  stand  beside  her  grave : 
But  'twas  no  fault  of  his,  no  fault  of  his. 

•'  I  ask  your  pardon.  Sirs ;  I  prate  and  prate. 
And  never  have  I  said  what  brought  me  here. 
Sirs,  if  you  want  a  boat  to-morrow  morn, 
I'm  bold  to  say  there's  ne'er  a  boat  like  mine." 

"  Ay,  that  was  what  we  wanted,"  we  replied  ; 

"  A  boat,  his  boat ;  "  and  off  he  went,  well  pleased. 

We,  too,  rose  up  (the  crimson  in  the  sky 
Flushing  our  faces),  and  went  sauntering  on, 
And  thought  to  reach  our  lodging,  by  the  cliff. 
And  up  and  down  among  the  heather  beds, 
And  up  and  down  between  the  sheaves,  we  sped. 


BROTHERS,    AND   A   SER5ION.  245 

Doubling  and  winding ;  for  a  long  ravine 
Ran  up  into  the  land  and  cut  us  off, 
Pushing  out  slippery  ledges  for  the  birds. 
And  rent  with  many  a  crevice,  where  the  wind 
Had  laid  up  drifts  of  empty  eggshells,  swept 
From  the  bare  berths  of  gulls  and  guillemots. 

So  as  it  chanced  we  lighted  on  a  path 

That  led  into  a  nutwood ;  and  our  talk 

Was  louder  than  beseemed,  if  we  had  known. 

With  argument  and  laughter ;  for  the  path. 

As  we  sped  onward,  took  a  sudden  turn 

Abrupt,  and  we  came  out  on  churchyard  grass. 

And  close  upon  a  porch,  and  face  to  face 

With  those  within,  and  with  the  thirty  graves. 

We  heard  the  voice  of  one  who  preached  within. 

And  stopped.      "Come  on,"  my  brother  whispered 

me; 
*'  It  were  more  decent  that  we  enter  now ; 
Come  on !  we'll  hear  this  rare  old  demigod : 
I  like  strong  men  and  large ;  I  like  grey  heads. 
And  grand  gruff  voices,  hoarse  though  this  may  be 
With  shouting  in  the  storm." 

It  was  not  hoarse. 


246.  BROTHERS,   AND   A   SERMON. 

The  voice  that  preached  to  those  few  fishermen 

And  women,  nursing  mothers  with  the  babes 

Hushed  on  their  breasts ;  and  yet  it  held  them  not : 

Their  drowsy  eyes  were  drawn  to  look  at  us. 

Till,  having  leaned  our  rods  against  the  wall. 

And  left  the  dogs  at  watch,  we  entered,  sat, 

And  were  apprised  that,  though  he  saw  us  not. 

The  parson  knew  that  he  had  lost  the  eyes 

And  ears  of  those  before  him,  for  he  made 

A  pause  —  a  long  dead  pause  —  and  dropped  his  arms, 

And  stood  awaiting,  till  I  felt  the  red 

Mount  to  my  brow. 

And  a  soft  fluttering  stir 
Passed  over  all,  and  every  mother  hushed 
The  babe  beneath  her  shawl,  and  he  turned  round 
And  met  our  eyes,  unused  to  diflidence, 
But  diflident  of  his  ;  then  with  a  sigh 
Fronted  the  folk,  lifted  his  grand  grey  head. 
And  said,  as  one  that  pondered  now  the  words 
He  had  been  preaching  on  with  new  surprise, 
And  found  fresh  marvel  in  their  sound,  "  Behold! 
Behold!"  saith  He,  "I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 

Then  said  the  parson  :  "  What !  and  shall  He  wait. 
And  must  He  wait,  not  only  till  we  say. 


BROTHERS,    AXD   A   SERMOX.  247 

*  Good  Lord,  the  house  is  clean,  the  hearth  is  swept, 

The  children  sleep,  the  mackerel-boats  are  in, 

And  all  the  nets  are  mended ;  therefore  I 

Will  slowly  to  the  door  and  open  it : ' 

But  must  He  also  wait  where  still,  behold  ! 

He  stands  and  knocks,  while  we  do  say,  '  Good  Lord, 

The  gentlefolk  are  come  to  worship  here. 

And  I  will  up  and  open  to  Thee  soon ; 

But  first  I  pray  a  little  longer  wait, 

For  I  am  taken  up  with  them ;  my  eyes 

Must  needs  regard  the  fashion  of  their  clothes. 

And  count  the  gains  I  think  to  make  by  them ; 

Forsooth,  they  are  of  much  account,  good  Lord ! 

Therefore  have  patience  with  me  —  wait,  dear  Lord ! 

Or  come  again  ?  ' 

What !  must  He  wait  for  this  — 
For  this  ?     Ay,  He  doth  wait  for  this,  and  still. 
Waiting  for  this.  He,  patient,  raileth  not ; 
Waiting  for  this,  e'en  this  He  saith,  '  Behold ! 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

O  patient  hand ! 
Knocking  and  waiting  —  knocking  in  the  night 
When  work  is  done  !     I  charge  you,  by  the  sea 
Whereby  you  fill  your  children's  mouths,  and  by 


248  BEOTHERS,    AND   A   SERMOX. 

The  might  of  Him  that  made  it  —  fishermen  ! 

I  charge  you,  mothers  !  by  the  mother's  milk 

He  drew,  and  by  His  Father,  God  over  all. 

Blessed  for  ever,  that  ye  ansAver  Him  ! 

Open  the  door  with  shame,  if  ye  have  sinned ; 

If  ye  be  sorry,  open  it  with  sighs. 

Albeit  the  place  be  bare  for  poverty, 

And  comfortless  for  lack  of  plenishing. 

Be  not  abashed  for  that,  but  open  it, 

And  take  Him  in  that  comes  to  suj)  with  thee ; 

'  Behold  ! '  He  saith,  '  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock. 

"Now,  hear  me  :  there  be  troubles  in  this  world 
That  no  man  can  escape,  and  there  is  one 
That  lieth  hard  and  heavy  on  my  soul. 
Concerning  that  which  is  to  come  :  — 

I  say 
As  a  man  that  knows  what  earthly  trouble  means, 
I  will  not  bear  this  one  —  I  cannot  bear 
Tiiis  ONE  —  I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  you  — 
You  —  every  one  of  you,  body  and  soul; 
You,  witli  the  care  you  snfitir,  and  the  loss 
That  you  sustain  ;  you,  with  tlic  growing  up 
To  peril,  maybe  witli  the  growing  old 


BROTHEKS,   AND  A  SEUMON.  2i9 

To  want,  unless  before  I  stand  with  you 

At  the  great  white  throne,  I  may  be  free  of  all, 

And  utter  to  the  full  what  shall  discharge 

Mine  obligation  ;  nay,  I  will  not  wait 

A  day,  for  every  time  the  black  clouds  rise, 

And  the  gale  freshens,  still  I  search  my  soul 

To  find  if  there  be  aught  that  can  persuade 

To  good,  or  aught  forsooth  that  can  beguile 

From  evil,  that  I  (miserable  man ! 

If  that  be  so)  have  left  unsaid,  undone. 

"  So  that  when  any  risen  from  sunken  wrecks, 

Or  rolled  in  by  the  billows  to  the  edge 

Of  the  everlasting  strand,  what  time  the  sea 

Gives  up  her  dead,  shall  meet  me,  they  may  say 

Never,  '  Old  man,  you  told  us  not  of  this  ; 

You  left  us  fisher-lads  that  had  to  toil 

Ever  in  danger  of  the  secret  stab 

Of  rocks,  far  deadlier  than  the  dagger ;  winds 

Of  breath  more  murderous  than  the  cannon's  ;  waves 

Mighty  to  rock  us  to  our  death ;  and  gulfs 

Ready  beneath  to  suck  and  swallow  us  in : 

This  crime  be  on  your  head  ;  and  as  for  us  — 

What  shall  we  do?  '  but  rather  —  nay,  not  so. 


250  BROTHERS,   AND  A  SERMOJST, 

I  will  not  think  it ;  I  will  leave  the  dead, 

Appealing  but  to  life  :  I  am  afraid 

Of  you,  but  not  so  much  if  you  have  sinned 

As  for  the  doubt  if  sin  shall  be  forgiven. 

The  day  was,  I  have  been  afraid  of  pride — - 

Hard  man's  hard  pride  ;  but  now  I  am  afraid 

Of  man's  humility.     I  counsel  you. 

By  the  great  God's  great  humbleness,  and  by 

His  pity,  be  not  humble  over-much. 

See  !  I  will  show  at  whose  unopened  doors 

He  stands  and  knocks,  that  you  may  never  say, 

'  I  am  too  mean,  too  ignorant,  too  lost ; 

He  knocks  at  other  doors,  but  not  at  mine.' 

"  See  here  !  it  is  the  night !  it  is  the  night ! 
And  snow  lies  thickly,  while  untrodden  snow. 
And  the  wan  moon  upon  a  casement  shines  — 
A  casement  crusted  o'er  with  frosty  leaves. 
That  make  her  ray  less  bright  along  the  floor. 
A  woman  sits,  with  hands  upon  her  knees. 
Poor  tired  soul !  and  she  has  nought  to  do. 
For  there  is  neither  fire  nor  candle  light : 
The  driftwood  ash  lies  (^old  upon  her  hearth ; 
The  rushlight  flickered  down  an  hour  ago  ; 


BROTHERS,    AKD   A   SERxMON.  251 

Her  children  -wail  a  little  in  their  sleep 
For  cold  and  hunger,  and,  as  if  that  sound 
Was  not  enough,  another  conies  to  her. 
Over  God's  undefiled  snow  —  a  song  — 
Nay,  never  hang  your  heads  —  I  say,  a  song. 

"  And  doth  she  curse  the  alehouse,  and  the  sots 
That  drink  the  night  out  and  their  earnings  there, 
And  drink  their  manly  strength  and  courage  down, 
And  drink  away  the  litfrle  children's  bread. 
And  starve  her,  starving  by  the  self-same  act 
Her  tender  suckling,  that  with  piteous  eyes 
Looks  in  her  face,  till  scarcely  she  has  heart 
To  work,  and  earn  the  scanty  bit  and  drop 
That  feed  the  others  ? 

Does  she  curse  the  song  ? 
I  think  not,  fishermen  ;  I  have  not  heard 
Such  women  curse.     God's  curse  is  curse  enough. 
To-morrow  she  will  say  a  l)itter  thing. 
Pulling  her  sleeve  down  lest  the  bruises  show  — 
A  bitter  thing,  but  meant  for  an  excuse  — 
'  My  master  is  not  worse  than  many  men : ' 
But  now,  ay,  now  she  sitteth  dumb  and  still ; 
No  food,  no  comfort,  cold  and  poverty 
Bearing  her  down. 


252  BEOTIIERS,    AND   A   SERMON. 

My  heart  is  sore  for  her ; 
How  long,  how  long  ?     When  troubles  come  of  God, 
When  men  are  frozen  out  of  work,  when  wives 
Are  sick,  when  working  fathers  fail  and  die, 
When  boats  go  down  at  sea  —  then  nought  behooves 
Like  patience  ;  but  for  troubles  wrought  of  men 
Patience  is  hard  —  I  tell  you  it  is  hard. 

"  O  thou  poor  soul !  it  is  the  night  —  the  night ; 

Against  thy  door  drifts  up  the  silent  snow. 

Blocking  thy  threshold  :   'Fall,'  thou  sayest,  '  fall,  fall, 

Cold  snow,  and  lie  and  be  trod  underfoot. 

Am  not  I  fallen  ?  wake  up,  and  pipe,  O  wind. 

Dull  wind,  and  beat  and  bluster  at  my  door : 

Merciful  wind,  sing  me  a  hoarse  rough  song, 

For  there  is  other  music  made  to-night 

That  I  would  fain  not  hear.     Wake,  thou  still  sea, 

Heavily  plunge.     Shoot  on,  white  waterfall. 

O,  I  could  long  like  thy  cold  icicles 

Freeze,  freeze,  and  hang  upon  the  frosty  clifl 

And  not  complain,  so  I  might  melt  at  last 

In  the  warm  summer  sun,  as  thou  wilt  do ! 

"  '  But  woe  is  me  !  I  think  there  is  no  sun  ; 
My  sun  is  sunken,  and  the  night  grows  dark : 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  253 

None  care  for  me.     The  children  cry  for  bread, 
And  I  have  none,  and  nought  can  comfort  me ; 
Even  if  the  heavens  were  free  to  such  as  I, 
It  were  not  much,  for  death  is  long  to  wait, 
And  heaven  is  far  to  go  ! ' 

"And  speak'st  thou  thus. 
Despairing  of  the  sun  that  sets  to  thee. 
And  of  the  earthly  love  that  wanes  to  thee, 
And  of  the  heaven  that  lieth  far  from  thee  ? 
Peace,  peace,  fond  fool !     One  draweth  near  thy  door 
Whose  footsteps  leave  no  print  across  the  snow ; 
Thy  sun  has  risen  with  comfort  in  his  face. 
The  smile  of  heaven,  to  warm  thy  frozen  heart, 
And  bless  with  saintly  hand.     What !  is  it  long 
To  wait  and  far  to  go  ?     Thou  shalt  not  go  ; 
Behold,  across  the  snow  to  thee  lie  comes. 
Thy  heaven  descends,  and  is  it  long  to  wait? 
Thou  shalt  not  wait :  '  This  night,  this  night,'  He  saith, 
'  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

*'  It  is  enough  —  can  such  an  one  be  here  — 
Yea,  here  ?  O  God  forgive  you,  fishermen  ! 
One  !  is  there  only  one  ?     But  do  thou  know. 


254  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMON- 

0  woman  pale  for  want,  If  thou  art  here, 

That  on  thy  lot  much  thought  is  spent  in  heaven ; 
And,  coveting  the  heart  a  hard  man  broke. 
One  standeth  patient,  watching  in  the  night, 
And  waiting  in  the  day-time. 

What  shall  be 
If  thou  wilt  answer  ?     He  will  smile  on  thee ; 
One  smile  of  His  shall  be  enough  to  heal 
The  wound  of  man's  neglect ;  and  He  will  sigh. 
Pitying  the  trouble  which  that  sigh  shall  cure  ; 
And  He  will  speak  —  speak  in  the  desolate  night, 
In  the  dark  night :   '  For  me  a  thorny  crown 
Men  wove,  and  nails  were  driven  in  my  hands 
And  feet :  there  was  an  earthquake,  and  I  died ; 

1  died,  and  am  alive  for  evermore. 

"  '  I  died  for  thee ;  for  thee  I  am  alive. 
And  my  humanity  doth  mourn  for  thee. 
For  thou  art  mine ;  and  all  thy  little  ones. 
They,  too,  are  mine,  are  mine.     Behold,  the  house 
Is  dark,  but  there  is  brightness  where  the  sons 
Of  God  are  singing,  and,  behold,  the  heart 
Is  troul)led  :  yet  the  nations  walk  in  white  ; 
They  have  forgotten  how  to  weeji ;  and  thou 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMOX.  255 

Shalt  also  come,  and  I  will  foster  thee 
And  satisfy  thy  soul ;  and  thou  shalt  warm 
Thy  trembling  life  beneath  the  smile  of  God. 
A  little  while  —  it  is  a  little  while  — 
A  little  while,  and  I  will  comfort  thee. 
I  go  away,  but  I  will  come  again.' 

"  But  hear  me  yet.     There  was  a  poor  old  man 
Who  sat  and  listened  to  the  raging  sea. 
And  heard  it  thunder,  lunging  at  the  cliffs 
As  like  to  tear  them  down.     He  lay  at  night ; 
And  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lads,'  said  he. 
'That  sailed  at  noon,  though  they  be  none  of  mine  J 
For  when  the  gale  gets  up,  and  when  the  wind 
Flings  at  the  window,  when  it  beats  the  roof. 
And  lulls,  and  stops,  and  rouses  up  again, 
And  cuts  the  crest  clean  off  the  plunging  wave. 
And  scatters  it  like  feathers  up  the  field, 
Why,  then  T  think  of  my  two  lads  :  my  lads 
That  would  have  worked  and  never  let  me  want, 
And  never  let  me  take  the  parish  pay. 
No,  none  of  mine ;  my  lads  were  drowned  at  sea  — 
My  two  —  before  the  rnost  of  these  were  born. 
I  know  how  sharp  that  cuts,  since  my  poor  wife 


256  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMON. 

Walked  up  and  down,  and  still  walked  up  and  down, 

And  I  walked  after,  and  one  could  not  hear 

A  word  the  other  said,  for  wind  and  sea 

That  raged  and  beat  and  thundered  in  the  night  — 

The  awfullest,  the  loi^est,  lightest  night 

That  ever  parents  had  to  spend  —  a  moon 

That  shone  like  daylight  on  the  breaking  wave. 

Ah  me  !  and  other  men  have  lost  their  lads, 

And  other  women  wiped  their  poor  dead  mouths, 

And  got  them  home  and  dried  them  in  the  house, 

And  seen  the  driftwood  lie  along  the  coast, 

That  was  a  tidy  boat  but  one  day  back. 

And  seen  next  tide  the  neighbors  gather  it 

To  lay  it  on  their  fires. 

Ay,  I  was  strong 
And  able-bodied  —  loved  my  work  ;  — but  now 
I  am  a  useless  hull :  'tis  time  I  sunk  ; 
I  am  in  all  men's  way  ;  I  trouble  them ; 
I  am  a  trouble  to  myself:  but  yet  . 
I  feel  for  mariners  of  stormy  nights, 
And  feel  for  wives  that  watch  ashore.     Ay,  ay! 
If  I  had  learning  I  would  pray  the  Lord 
To  bring  them  in  :  but  I'm  no  scholar,  no ; 
Book-learninjc  is  a  world  too  hard  for  me  : 


BROTHERS,    ANt>  A   SERMON.  257 

But  I  make  bold  to  say,  '  O  Lord,  good  Lord, 

I  am  a  broken-down  poor  man,  a  fool 

To  speak  to  Thee  :  but  in  the  Book  'tis  writ, 

As  I  hear  say  from  others  that  can  read. 

How,  when  Thou  camest,  Thou  didst  love  the  sea, 

And  live  with  fisherfolk,  whereby  'tis  sure 

Thou  knowest  all  the  peril  they  go  through, 

And  all  their  trouble. 

As  for  me,  good  Lord, 
I  have  no  boat ;  I  am  too  old,  too  old  — 
My  lads  are  drowned  ;  I  buried  my  poor  wife  ; 
My  little  lasses  died  so  long  ago 
That  mostly  I  forget  what  they  were  like. 
Thou  knowest,  Loi'd ;  they  were  such  little  ones 
I  know  they  went  to  Thee,  but  I  forget 
Their  faces,  though  I  missed  them  sore. 

O  Lord, 
I  was  a  strong  man  ;  I  have  drawn  good  food 
And  made  good  money  out  of  Thy  great  sea : 
But  yet  I  cried  for  them  at  nights  ;  and  now, 
Although  I  be  so  old,  I  miss  my  lads. 
And  there  be  many  folk  this  stormy  night 
Heavy  with  fear  for  theirs.     Merciful  Lord, 
Comfort  them;  save  their  honest  boys,  their  pride, 
17 


258  BROTHERS,  XSD   A  SERMON. 

And  let  them  hear  next  eljb  the  blessedest, 
Best  sound  —  the  boat  keels  grating  on  the  sand. 

*' '  I  cannot  pray  with  finer  words  :  I  know 
Nothing  ;  I  have  no  learning,  cannot  learn  — 
Too  old,  too  old.     They  say  I  want  for  nought, 
I  have  the  parish  pay  ;  but  I  am  dull 
Of  hearing,  and  the  fire  scarce  warms  me  through. 
God  save  me  —  I  have  been  a  sinful  man  — 
And  save  the  lives  of  them  that  still  can  work. 
For  they  are  good  to  me ;  ay,  good  to  me. 
But,  Lord,  I  am  a  trouble  !  and  I  sit. 
And  I  am  lonesome,  and  the  nights  are  few 
That  any  think  to  come  and  draw  a  chair. 
And  sit  in  my  poor  place  and  talk  awhile. 
Why  should  they  come,  forsooth  ?     Only  the  wind 
Knocks  at  my  door,  O  long  and  loud  it  knocks, 
The  only  thing  God  made  that  has  a  mind 
To  enter  in.' 

"  Yea,  thus  the  old  man  spake  : 
These  were  the  last  Avords  of  his  aged  mouth  — 
But  One  did  knock.     One  came  to  sup  with  him. 
That  humble,  weak  old  man  ;  knocked  at  his  door 
In  the  rough  pauses  of  the  laboring  wind. 


BROTHERS,    ASSD   A   SERMOX.  2ol> 

I  tell  you  that  One  knocked  while  it  was  dark, 
Save  where  their  foaming  passion  had  made  white 
Those  livid  seething  billows.     What  He  said    - 
In  that  poor  place  where  He  did  talk  awhile, 
I  cannot  tell :  but  this  I  am  assured. 
That  when  the  neighbors  came  the  morrow  morn, 
What  time  the  wind  had  bated,  and  the  sun 
Shone  on  the  old  man's  floor,  they  saw  the  smile 
He  passed  away  in,  and  they  said,  '  He  looks 
As  he  had  woke  and  seen  the  face  of  Christ, 
And  with  that  rapturous  smile  held  out  his  arms 
To  come  to  Him ! ' 

"  Can  such  an  one  be  here. 
So  old,  so  weak,  so  ignorant,  so  frail  ? 
The  Lord  be  good  to  thee,  thou  poor  old  man  ; 
It  would  be  hard  with  thee  if  heaven  were  shut 
To  such  as  have  not  learning !     Nay,  nay,  nay. 
He  condescends  to  them  of  low  estate  ; 
To  such  as  are  despised  He  cometh  down. 
Stands  at  the  door  and  knocks. 

' '  Yet  bear  with  me. 
I  have  a  message ;  I  have  more  to  say. 


260  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMON. 

Shall  sorrow  -win  His  pity,  and  not  sin  — 

That  burden  ten  times  heavier  to  be  borne  ? 

What  think  you  ?     Shall  the  virtuous  have  His  care 

Alone  ?  O  virtuous  women,  think  not  scorn. 

For  you  may  lift  your  faces  everywhere  ; 

And  now  that  it  grows  dusk,  and  I  can  see 

None  though  they  front  me  straight,  I  fain  would  tell 

A  certain  thing  to  you.     I  say  to  you ; 

And  if  it  doth  concern  you,  as  methinks 

It  doth,  then  surely  it  concerneth  all. 

I  say  that  there  was  once  —  I  say  not  here  — 

I  say  that  there  was  once  a  castaway. 

And  she  was  weeping,  weeping  bitterly ; 

Kneeling,  and  crying  with  a  heart-sick  cry 

That  choked  itself  in  sobs  —  '  O  my  good  name ! 

O  my  good  name  ! '     And  none  did  hear  her  cry ! 

Nay  ;  and  it  lightened,  and  the  storm-bolts  fell, 

And  the  rain  splashed  upon  the  roof,  and  still 

She,  storm-tost  as  the  storming  elements  — 

She  cried  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry, 

'  O  my  good  name  ! '     And  then  the  thunder-cloud 

Stooped  low  and  burst  in  darkness  overhead, 

And  rolled,  and  rocked  her  on  her  knees,  and  shook 

The  frail  foundations  of  her  dwelling-place. 


BROTHERS,    AXD   A   SERMON.  261 

But  she  —  if  any  neighbor  had  come  in 

(  None  did  )  :  if  any  neighbors  had  come  in 

They  might  have  seen  her  crying  on  her  knees, 

And  sobbing  '  Lost,  lost,  lost ! '  beating  her  breast  — 

Her  breast  for  ever  pricked  with  cruel  thorns. 

The  wounds  whereof  could  neither  balm  assuage 

Nor  any  patience  heal  —  beating  her  brow, 

AATiich  ached,  it  had  been  bent  so  long  to  hide 

From  level  eyes,  whose  meaning  was  contempt. 

"  O  ye  good  women,  it  is  hard  to  leave 
The  paths  of  virtue,  and  return  again. 
What  if  this  sinner  wept,  and  none  of  jou 
Comforted  her  ?     And  what  if  she  did  strive 
To  mend,  and  none  of  you  believed  her  strife, 
Nor  looked  upon  her  ?     Mark,  I  do  not  say. 
Though  it  was  hard,  j'ou  therefore  were  to  blame 
That  she  had  aught  against  you,  though  your  feet 
Never  drew  near  her  door.     But  I  beseech 
Your  patience.     Once  in  old  Jerusalem 
A  woman  kneeled  at  consecrated  feet. 
Kissed  them,  and  washed  them  with  her  tears. 

What  then  ? 
I  think  that  yet  our  Lord  is  pitiful : 


262         BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

I  think  I  see  the  castaway  e'en  now ! 
And  she  is  not  alone  :  the  heavy  rain 
Splashes  without,  and  sullen  thunder  rolls, 
But  she  is  lying  at  the  sar;red  feet 
Of  One  transfigured. 

"And  her  tears  flow  down, 
Down  to  her  lips  —  her  lips  that  kiss  the  print 
Of  nails  ;  and  love  is  like  to  break  her  heart ! 
Love  and  repentance  —  for  it  stiU  doth  work 
Sore  in  her  soul  to  think,  to  think  that  she, 
Even  she,  did  pierce  the  sacred,  sacred  feet. 
And  bruise  the  thorn-crowned  head. 

"  O  Lord,  our  Lord, 
How  great  is  Thy  compassion  !     Come,  good  Lord, 
For  we  will  open.     Come  this  night,  good  Lord ; 
Stand  at  the  door  and  knock. 

"And  is  this  all?  — 
Trouble,  old  age  and  simpleness,  and  sin  — 
This  all  ?     It  might  be  all    ome  other  night : 
But  this  night,  if  a  voice  said  '  Give  account 
Whom  hast  thou  with  thee  ?  '  then  must  I  reply, 
'  Young     manhood    have    I,     beautiful     youth     and 

strength. 
Rich  with  all  treasure  drawn  up  from  the  crypt 


BROTHERS,    AXD   A   SERMON.  263 

Where  lies  the  learning  of  the  ancient  world  — 
Brave  with  all  thoughts  that  jioets  fling  upon 
The  strand  of  life,  as  driftweed  after  storms : 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  mountain  heads, 
And  the  dread  purity  of  Alpine  snows. 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  works  concealed 
For  ages  from  mankind  —  outlying  worlds. 
And  many  mooned  spheres  —  and  Thy  great  store 
Of  stars,  more  thick  than  mealy  dust  which  here 
Powders  the  pale  leaves  of  Auriculas. 

This  do  I  know,  but.  Lord,  I  know  not  more. 

Not  more  concerning  them  —  concerning  Thee, 

I  know  Thy  bounty ;  where  Thou  givest  much 

Standing  without,  if  any  call  Thee  in 

Thou  givest  more.'     Speak,  then,  O  rich  and  strong: 

Open,  O  happy  young,  ere  yet  the  hand 

Of  Ilim  that  knocks,  wearied  at  last,  forbear ; 

The  patient  foot  its  thankless  quest  refrain. 

The  wounded  heart  for  evermore  withdraw." 

I  have  heard  many  speak,  but  this  one  man  — 
So  anxious  not  to  go  to  heaven  alone  — 


264  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMOX. 

This  one  man  I  remember,  and  his  look. 

Till  twilight  overshadowed  him.     He  ceased. 

And  out  in  darkness  with  the  fisher  folk 

We  passed  and  stumbled  over  mounds  of  moss. 

And  heard,  but  did  not  see,  the  passing  beck. 

Ah,  graceless  heart,  would  that  it  could  regain 

From  the  dim  storehouse  of  sensations  past 

The  impress  full  of  tender  awe,  that  night, 

Which  fell  on  me  !     It  was  as  if  the  Christ 

Had  been  drawn  down  from  heaven  to  track  us  home. 

And  any  of  the  footsteps  following  us 

Might  have  been  His. 


I 

I 


265 


A  WEDDING  SONG. 


OME     up     the     broad    river,    the 
Thames,    my  Dane, 
My  Dane  with  the  beautiful  eyes  ! 
Thousands    and    thousands     await 
thee  full   fain, 
And  talk  of  the  wind  and  the  skies. 
Fear  not  from  folk  and  from  country  to  part, 

O,  I  swear  it  is  wisely  done  : 
For  (I  said)  I  will  bear  me  by  thee,  sweetheart, 
As  becometh  my  father's  son. 


Great  London  was  shouting  as  T  went  down. 

"  She  is  worthy,"  I  said,  "of  this  ; 
What  shall  I  give  who  have  promised  a  crown  ? 

O,  first  I  will  give  her  a  kiss."  ^ 

So  I  kissed  her  and  brought  her,  my  Dane,  my  Dane, 

Through  the  waving  wonderful  crowd  : 
Thousands  and  thousands,  they  shouted  amain, 

Like  mighty  thunders  and  loud. 


266  A   WEDDING   SONG. 

And  they  said,  "  He  is  young,  the  lad  we  love, 

The  heir  of  the  Isles  is  young : 
How  we  deem  of  his  mother,  and  one  gone  above, 

Can  neither  be  said  nor  sung. 
He  brings  us  a  pledge  —  he  will  do  his  part 

With  the  best  of  his  race  and  name ; "  — 
And  I  will,  for  I  look  to  live,  sweetheart, 

As  may  suit  with  my  mother's  fame. 


267 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


LOVE   this    grey   old  church,   the 
low,  long  nave. 
The  ivied  chancel  and  the  slender 
spii-e  ; 
No  less  its  shadow  on  each  heaving 
grave. 

With  growing  osier  bound,  or  living  briar ; 
I  love  those  yew-tree  trunks,  where  stand  arrayed 
So  many  deep-cut  names  of  youth  and  maid. 


A  simple  custom  this  —  I  love  it  well  — 
A  carved  betrothal  and  a  pledge  of  truth ; 

How  many  an  eve,  their  linked  names  to  spell, 
Beneath  the  yew-trees  sat  our  village  youth ! 

When  work  was  over,  and  the  new-cut  hay 

Sent  wafts  of  balm  from  meadows  where  it  lay. 


268  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

Ah !  many  an  eve,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 
Some  village  hind  has  beckoned  me  aside, 

And  sovight  mine  aid,  with  shy  and  awkward  joy. 
To  carve  the  letters  of  his  rustic  bride, 

And  make  them  clear  to  read  as  graven  stone. 

Deep  in  the  yew-tree's  trunk  beside  his  own. 

For  none  could  carve  like  me,  and  here  they  stand. 
Fathers  and  mothers  of  this  present  race  ; 

And  underscored  by  some  less  practised  hand. 
That  fain  the  story  of  its  line  would  trace, 

With  children's  names,  and  number,  and  the  day 

When  any  called  to  God  have  passed  away. 

I  look  upon  them,  and  I  turn  aside. 

As  oft  when  carving  them  I  did  erewhile ; 

And  there  I  see  those  wooden  bridges  wide 
That  cross  the  marshy  hollow  ;  there  the  stile 

In  reeds  imbedded,  and  the  swelling  down. 

And  the  white  road  toward  the  distant  town. 

But  those  old  bridges  claim  another  look. 

Our  brattling  river  tumbles  tlirough  the  one ; 
The  second  spans  a  shallow,  weedy  brook ; 


I 
f 


THE  FOUR   BRIDGES.  269 

Beneath  the  others,  and  beneath  the  sun, 
Like  two  long  stilly  pools,  and  on  their  breasts 
Picture  their  wooden  piles,  encased  in  swallows'  nests. 

And  round  about  them  grows  a  fringe  of  reeds. 
And  then  a  floating  crown  of  lily  flowers. 

And  yet  within  small  silver-budded  weeds  ; 
But  each  clear  centre  evermore  embowers 

A  deeper  sky,  where,  stooping,  you  may  see 

The  Uttle  minnows  darting  restlessly. 

My  heart  is  bitter,  lilies,  at  your  sweet ; 

Why  did  the  dewdrop  fringe  your  chalices  ? 
Why  in  your  beauty  are  you  thus  complete. 

You  silver  ships  —  you  floating  palaces  ? 
O  !  if  need  be,  you  must  allure  man's  eye, 
Yet  wherefore  blossom  here  ?     O  why  ?     O  why  ? 

O  !  O  !  the  world  is  wide,  you  lily  flowers. 
It  hath  warm  forests,  cleft  by  stilly  pools. 

Where  every  night  bathe  crowds  of  stars  ;  and  bowv-rs 
Of  spicery  hang  over.     Sweet  aii*  cools 

And  shakes  the  lilies  among  those  stars  that  lie : 

Why  are  not  ye  content  to  reign  there  ?     AVhy  ? 


270  THE  FOUR   BRIDGES. 

That  chain  of  bridges,  it  were  hard  to  tell 
How  it  is  linked  with  all  my  early  joy. 

There  was  a  little  foot  that  I  loved  well, 
It  danced  across  them  when  I  was  a  boy ; 

There  was  a  careless  voice  that  used  to  sing ; 

There  was  a  child,  a  sweet  and  happy  thing. 

Oft  through  that  matted  wood  of  oak  and  birch 
She  came  from  yonder  house  upon  the  hill ; 

She  crossed  the  wooden  bridges  to  the  church. 
And  watched,  with  village  girls,  my  boasted  skill : 

But  loved  to  watch  the  floating  lilies  best. 

Or  linger,  peering  in  a  swallow's  nest ; 

Linger  and  linger,  with  her  wistful  eyes 
Drawn  to  the  lily-buds  that  lay  so  white 

And  soft  on  crimson  water ;  for  the  skies 

Would  crimson,  and  the  little  cloudlets  bright 

Would  all  be  flung  among  the  flowers  sheer  down. 

To  flush  the  spaces  of  their  clustering  crown. 

Till  the  green  ruslics  —  O,  so  glossy  green  — 

The  rushes,  they  would  whisper,  rustle,  shake ; 
And  forth  on  floating  gauze,  no  jewelled  queen 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  271 

So  rich,  the  green-eyed  dragon-flies  would  break, 
And  hover  on  the  flowers  —  aerial  things, 
With  little  rainbows  flickering  on  their  wings. 

Ah  !  my  heart  dear  !  the  polished  pools  lie  still, 
Like  lanes  of  water  reddened  by  the  west. 

Till,  swooping  down  from  yon  overhanging  hill. 
The  bold  marsh  harrier  wets  her  tawny  breast ; 

We  scared  her  oft  in  childhood  from  her  prey. 

And  the  old  eager  thoughts  rise  fresh  as  yesterday. 

To  yonder  copse  by  moonlight  I  did  go. 

In  luxury  of  mischief,  half  afraid, 
To  steal  the  great  owl's  brood,  her  downy  snow. 

Her  screaming  imps  to  seize,  the  while  she  preyed 
With  yellow,  cruel  eyes,  whose  radiant  glare. 
Fell  with  their  mother  rage,  I  might  not  dare. 

Panting  I  lay  till  her  great  fanning  wings 

Troubled  the  dreams  of  rock-doves,  slumbering  nigh, 

And  she  and  her  fierce  mate,  like  evil  things. 

Skimmed  the  dusk  fields  ;  then  rising,  with  a  cry 

Of  fear,  joy,  triumph,  darted  on  my  prey. 

And  tore  it  from  the  nest  and  fled  away. 


272  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

But  afterward,  belated  in  the  -wood, 

I  saw  her  moping  on  the  rifled  tree, 
And  my  heart  smote  me  for  her,  while  I  stood 

Awakened  from  my  careless  reverie  ; 
So  white  she  looked,  with  moonliglit  round  her  shed. 
So  mothei'like  she  drooped  and  hung  her  head. 

O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me  !     I  behold 
The  godwits  running  by  the  water  edge. 

The  mossy  bi-idges  min-ored  as  of  old ; 

Tlie  little  curlews  creeping  from  the  sedge, 

But  not  the  little  foot  so  gayly  light : 

O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me,  that  I  might  !  — 

Would  cheat  me  !     I  behold  the  gable  ends  — 
Those  purple  pigeons  clustering  on  the  cote ; 

The  lane  with  majiles  overhung,  that  bends 
Toward  her  dwelling  ;  the  dry  grassy  moat, 

Thick  mullions,  diamond  latticed,  mossed  and  grey. 

And  walls  banked  up  with  laui'cl  and  with  bay. 

And  up  behind  tliem  yellow  fields  of  com, 
And  still  ascending  countless  firry  spires. 
Dry  slopes  of  hills  uncultured,  bare,  forlorn. 


THE   FOUR   i;P.IDf!KS.  273 

And  green  in  rocky  cloft.s  Avith  whins  and  briars ; 
Then  rich  cloud  masses  dyed  the  violet's  hue, 
With  orange  sunbeams  dropping  swiftly  through. 

Ay,  1  behold  all  this  full  easily ; 

My  soul  is  jealous  of  my  happier  eyes, 
And  manhood  envies  youth.     Ah,  strange  to  see. 

By  looking  merely,  orange-flooded  skies  ; 
Nay,  any  dew-drop  that  may  near  me  shine : 
But  never  more  the  face  of  Eglantine ! 

She  was  my  one  companion,  being  herself 

The  jewel  and  adornment  of  my  days. 
My  life's  completeness.     G,  a  smiling  elf. 

That  I  do  but  disparage  with  my  praise  — 
My  playmate  ;  and  I  loved  her  dearly  and  long. 
And  she  loved  me,  as  the  tender  love  the  strong. 

Ay,  but  she  grew,  till  on  a  time  there  came 
A  sudden  restless  yearning  to  my  heart ; 

And  as  we  went  a-nesting,  all  for  shame 

And  shyness,  I  did  hold  my  peace,  and  start; 

Content  departed,  comfort  shut  me  out. 

And  there  was  nothing  left  to  talk  about. 
18 


274  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

She  had  but  sixteen  years,  and  as  for  me, 
Four  added  made  my  life.     This  pretty  bird. 

This  fairy  bird  that  I  had  cherished  —  she, 
Content,  had  sung,  while  I,  contented,  heard. 

The  song  had  ceased  ;  the  bird,  with  nature"'s  art. 

Had  brought  a  thorn  and  set  it  ir^  my  heart. 

The  restless  birth  of  love  my  soul  opprest, 
I  longed  and  wrestled  for  a  tranquil  day. 

And  warred  with  that  disquiet  in  my  breast 
As  one  who  knows  there  is  a  better  way ; 

But,  turned  against  myself,  I  still  in  vain 

Looked  for  the  ancient  calm  to  come  again. 

My  tired  soul  could  to  itself  confess 

That  she  deserved  a  wiser  love  than  mine  ; 

To  love  more  truly  were  to  love  her  less. 
And  for  this  truth  I  still  awoke  to  pine ; 

I  had  a  dim  belief  that  it  avouUI  be  . 

A  better  thing  for  her,  a  blessed  thing  for  me. 

Good  hast  Thou  made  them  —  comforters  right  sweet ; 

Good  hast  Thou  made  the  world,  to  mankind  lent ; 
Good  are  Thy  dropping  clouds  that  feed  the  wheat ; 


THE  FOUR   BRIDGES.  275 

Good  are  Thy  stars  above  the  finnament. 
"Take  to  Thee,  take,  Thy  worship,  Thy  renown ; 
The  good  which  Thou  hast  made  doth  wear  Thy  crown. 

For,  O  my  God,  Thy  creatures  are  so  frail, 

Thy  bountiful  creation  is  so  fair. 
That,  drawn  before  us  like  the  temple  veil. 

It  hides  the  Holy  Place  from  thought  and  care, 
Giving  man's  eyes  instead  its  sweejjing  fold. 
Rich  as  with  cherub  wings  and  apj^les  wrought  of  gold, 

Pui'ple  and  blue  and  scarlet  —  shimmering  bells 
And  rare  pomegranates  on  its  broidered  rim. 

Glorious  with  chain  -  and  fret-work  that  the  swell 
Of  incense  shakes  to  music  dreamy  and  dim. 

Till  on  a  day  comes  loss,  that  God  makes  gain. 

And  death  and  darkness  rend  the  veil  in  twain. 
****** 

Ah,  sweetest !  my  beloved  I  each  outward  thing 
Recalls  my  youth,  and  is  instinct  with  thee  ; 

Brown  wood-owls  in  the  dusk,  with  noiseless  wing. 
Float  from  yon  hanger  to  their  haunted  tree, 

And  hoot  full  softly.     Listening,  I  regain 

A  flashing  thought   of  thee  with   their   remembered 
strain. 


276  THE   FOUR  BRIDGES. 

I  will  not  pine  —  it  is  the  careless  brook, 

These  amber  sunbeams  slanting  down  the  vale ; 

It  is  the  long  tree-shadows,  with  their  look 
Of  natural  peace,  that  make  my  heart  to  fail : 

The  peace  of  nature  —  No,  I  will  not  pine  — 

But  O  the  contrast  'twixt  her  face  and  mine  ! 

And  still  I  changed  —  I  was  a  boy  no  more ; 

My  heart  was  large  enough  to  hold  my  kind. 
And  all  the  world.     As  hath  been  oft  before 

With  youth,  I  sought,  but  I  could  never  find 
Work  hard  enough  to  quiet  my  self-strife. 
And  use  the  strength  of  action-craving  life. 

She,  too,  was  changed  :  her  bountiful  sweet  eyes 
Looked  out  full  lovingly  on  all  the  world. 

O  tender  as  the  deeps  in  yonder  skies 

Their  beaming  !  but  her  rosebud  lips  were  curled 

With  the  soft  dimple  of  a  musing  smile. 

Which  kept  my  gaze,  but  held  me  mute  the  while. 

A  cast  of  bees,  a  slowly  moving  wain, 

The  scent  of  bean-flowers  wafted  up  a  dell. 
Blue  pigeons  Avheeling  over  fields  of  grain, 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  277 

Or  bleat  of  folded  lamb,  would  please  her  well ; 
Or  cooing  of  the  early  coted  dove  ;  — 
She  sauntering  mused  of  ihese  ;  I,  following,  mused  of 
love. 

With  her  two  lips,  that  one  the  other  pressed 

So  poutingly  with  such  a  tranquil  air, 
With  her  two  eyes,  that  on  my  own  would  rest 

So  dream-like,  she  denied  my  silent  prayer. 
Fronted  unuttered  words  and  said  them  nay, 
And  smiled  down  love  till  it  had  nought  to  say. 

The  words  that  through  mine  eyes  would  clearly  shine 
Hovered  and  hovered  on  my  lips  in  vain ; 

If  after  pause  I  said  but  "  Eglantine," 
She  i-aised  to  me  her  quiet  eyelids  twain. 

And  looked  me  this  reply  —  look  calm,  yet  bland  — 

"I  shall  not  know,  I  will  not  understand." 

Yet  she  did  know  my  story  —  knew  my  life 

Was  wrought  to  hers  witli  bindings  many  and  strong : 

That  I,  like  Israel,  served  for  a  wife. 

And  for  the  love  I  bare  her  thought  not  long, 

But  only  a  few  days,  full  quickly  told. 

My  seven  years'  service  strict  as  his  of  old. 


278  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

I  must  be  brief:  the  twilight  shadows  grow, 
And  steal  the  rose-bloom  genial  summer  sheds. 

And  scented  wafts  of  wind  that  come  and  go 
Have  lifted  dew  from  honied  clover  heads ; 

The  seven  stars  shine  out  above  the  mill, 

The  dark  delightsome  woods  lie  veiled  and  still. 

Hush  !  hush  !  the  nightingale  begins  to  sing, 
And  stops,  as  ill-contented  with  her  note ; 

Then  breaks  from  out  the  bush  Avith  hurried  wing, 
Restless  and  passionate.     She  tunes  her  throat. 

Laments  awhile  in  wavering  trills,  and  then 

Floods  with  a  stream  of  sweetness  all  the  glen. 

The  seven  stars  upon  the  nearest  pool 

Lie  trembling  down  betwixt  the  lily  leaves. 

And  move  like  glowworms  ;  wafting  breezes  cool 
Come  down  along  the  water,  and  it  heaves 

And  bubbles  in  the  sedge  ;  while  deep  and  wide 

The  dim  night  settles  on  the  country  side. 

I  know  this  scene  by  heart.     O  !  once  before 

I  saw  the  seven  stars  float  to  and  fro, 
And  stayed  my  hurried  footsteps  by  the  shore 


THE   FOUU   BRIDGES.  279 

To  mark  the  starry  picture  spread  below : 
Its  silence  made  the  tumult  in  my  breast 
More  audible ;  its  peace  revealed  my  own  unrest. 

I  paused,  then  hurried  on  ;  my  heart  beat  quick ; 

I  crossed  the  bridges,  reached  the  steep  ascent, 
And  climbed  through  matted  fern  and  hazels  thick ; 

Then  darkling  through  the  close  green  maples  went 
And  saw  —  there  felt  love's  keenest  pangs  begin  — 
An  oriel  window  lighted  from  within  — 

I  saw  —  and  felt  that  they  were  scarcely  cares 
Which  I  had  known  before  ;  I  drew  more  near. 

And  O  !  methought  how  sore  it  frets  and  wears 
The  soul  to  part  with  that  it  holds  so  dear ; 

'Tis  hard  two  woven  tendrils  to  untwine, 

And  I  was  come  to  pai't  with  Eglantine. 

For  life  was  bitter  through  those  words  repressed. 
And  youth  was  burdened  with  unspoken  vows  ; 

Love  unrequited  brooded  in  my  breast, 

And  shrank,  at  glance,  from  the  beloved  brows: 

And  three  long  montlis,  lieart-sick,  my  foot  withdrawn, 

I  had  not  sought  her  side  by  rivulet,  copse,  or  lawn  — 


1 


280  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

Not  sought  her  side,  yet  busy  thought  no  less 
Still  followed  in  her  wake,  though  far  behind; 

And  I,  being  parted  from  her  loveliness, 
Looked  at  the  picture  of  her  in  my  mind : 

I  lived  alone,  I  walked  with  soul  opprest, 

And  ever  sighed  for  her,  and  sighed  for  rest. 

Then  I  had  risen  to  struggle  with  ray  heart. 

And  said —  "  O  heart !  the  world  is  fresji  and  fair, 

And  I  am  young ;  but  this  thy  restless  smart 
Changes  to  bitterness  the  morning  air : 

I  will,  I  must,  these  weary  fetters  break  — 

I  wiU  be  free,  if  only  for  her  sake. 

"  O  let  me  trouble  her  no  more  with  sighs  ! 

Heart-healing  comes  by  distance,  and  with  time; 
Then  let  me  wander,  and  enrich  mine  eyes 

With  the  green  forests  of  a  softer  clime, 
Or  list  by  night  at  sea  the  wind's  low  stave 
And  long  monotonous  rockings  of  the  wave. 

"Through  open  solitudes,  unbounded  meads, 

Where,  wading  on  breast-high  in  yellow  bloom. 
Untamed  of  man,  the  shy  white  llama  feeds  — 


THE   I'OCII   15UIDGES.  281 

There  would  I  journey  and  forget  my  doom ; 
Or  far,  ()  far  as  sunrise  I  would  see 
The  level  prairie  stretch  away  from  me  ! 

*'  Or  I  would  sail  upon  the  tropic  seas, 

Where  fathom  long  the  blood-red  dulses  grow, 

Droop  from  the  rock  and  waver  in  the  breeze, 
Lashing  the  tide  to  foam ;  while  calm  below 

The  muddy  mandrakes  throng  those  waters  warm, 

And   purple,   gold,    and   green,   the  living  blossoms 
swarm." 

So  of  my  father  I  did  win  consent, 

With  importunities  repeated  long. 
To  make  that  duty  which  had  been  my  bent. 

To  dig  witli  strangers  alien  tombs  among, 
And  bound  to  them  through  desert  leagues  to  pace. 
Or  track  up  rivers  to  their  starting-place. 

For  this  I  had  done  battle  and  had  won. 

But  not  alone  to  tread  Arabian  sands, 
Measure  the  shadows  of  a  southern  sun. 

Or  dig  out  gods  in  the  old  Egyptian  lands ; 
But  for  the  dream  wherewith  I  thought  to  cope  — • 
The  grief  of  love  unmated  with  love's  hope. 


282  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

And  now  I  would  set  reason  in  array, 
Methought,  and  fight  for  freedom  manfully. 

Till  by  long  absence  there  would  come  a  day 
When  this  my  love  would  not  be  pain  to  me; 

But  if  I  knew  my  rosebud  fair  and  blest 

I  should  not  pine  to  wear  it  on  my  breast. 

The  days  fled  on  ;  another  week  should  fling 
A  foreign  shadow  on  my  lengthening  way ; 

Another  week,  yet  nearness  did  not  bring 
A  braver  heart  that  hard  farewell  to  say. 

I  let  the  last  day  Avane,  the  dusk  begin, 

Ere  I  had  sought  that  window  lighted  from  within. 

Sinking  and  sinking,  O  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

Will  absence  heal  thee  whom  its  shade  doth  rend  ? 
I  reached  the  little  gate,  and  soft  within 

The  oriel  fell  her  shadow.     She  did  lend 
Her  loveliness  to  me,  and  let  me  share 
The  listless  sweetness  of  those  features  fair. 

Among  thick  laurels  in  the  gathering  gloom, 

Heavy  for  this  our  parting,  T  did  stand  5 
Beside  her  mother  In  the  lighted  room. 


i 


\ 


THIi   FOUK   BRIDGES.  283 

She  sitting  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand ; 
And  as  she  read,  her  sweet  voice  tioating  through 
The  open  casement  seemed  to  mourn  me  an  adieu. 

Youth  !  youth  !  how  buoyant  are  thy  hopes  !  they  turn, 
Like  marigolds,  toward  the  sunny  side. 

My  hopes  were  buried  in  a  funeral  urn. 

And  they  sprung  up  like  plants  and  spread  them  wide  ; 

Though  I  had  schooled  and  reasoned  them  away, 

They  gathered  smiling  near  and  prayed  a  holiday. 

Ah,  sweetest  voice  !  how  pensive  were  its  tones, 
And  how  regretful  its  unconscious  pause  ! 

"Is  it  for  me  her  heart  this  sadness  owns, 
And  is  our  parting  of  to-night  the  cause  ? 

Ah,  would  it  might  be  so  !  "  I  thought,  and  stood 

Listening  entranced  among  the  underwood. 

I  thought  it  would  be  something  worth  the  pain 
Of  parting,  to  look  once  in  those  deep  eyes. 

And  take  from  them  an  answering  look  again : 

"  When  eastern  palms,"  I  thought,  "  about  me  rise, 

If  I  might  carve  our  names  upon  the  rind. 

Betrothed,  I  would  not  mourn,  though   leaving  thee 
behind." 


284  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

I  can  be  patient,  faithful,  and  most  fond 
To  unacknowledged  love  ;  I  can  be  true 

To  this  sweet  thraldom,  this  unequal  bond, 
This  yoke  of  mine  that  reaches  not  to  you : 

O,  how  much  more  could  costly  parting  buy  — 

If  not  a  pledge,  one  kiss,  or,  failing  that,  a  sigh! 

I  listened,  and  she  ceased  to  read  ;  she  turned 
Her  face  toward  the  laurels  where  I  stood : 

Her  mother  spoke  —  O  Avonder  !  hardly  learned ; 
She  said,  "There  is  a  rustling  in  the  wood; 

Ah,  child  !  if  one  draw  near  to  bid  farewell. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  an  unsought  secret  tell. 

*'  My  daughter,  there  is  nothing  held  so  dear 

As  love,  if  only  it  be  hard  to  win. 
The  roses  that  in  yonder  hedge  appear 

Outdo  our  garden-buds  which  bloom  within ; 
But  since  the  hand  may  pluck  them  every  day. 
Unmarked  they  bud,  bloom,  drop,  and  drift  away. 

"  My  daughter,  my  beloved,  be  not  you 

Like  those  same  roses."     O  bewildering  word! 
My  lieart  stood  still,  a  mist  obscured  my  view : 


THE   FOUR   DRIDGES.  285 

It  cleared;  still  silence.     No  denial  stirred 
The  lips  beloved ;  but  straight,  as  one  opprest, 
She,  kneeling,   dropped  her  face   upon  her  mother's 
breast. 

This  said,  "  My  daughter,  sorrow  comes  to  all; 

Our  life  is  checked  with  shadows  manifold  : 
But  woman  has  this  more  —  she  may  not  call 

Her  sorrow  by  its  name.     Yet  love  not  told, 
And  only  born  of  absence  and  by  thought, 
With  thought  and  absence  may  return  to  nought." 

And  my  beloved  lifted  up  her  face. 

And  moved  her  lips  as  if  about  to  speak  ; 

She  dropped  her  laslies  with  a  girlish  grace. 
And  the  rich  damask  mantled  in  her  cheek : 

I  stood  awaiting  till  she  should  deny 

Her  love,  or  with  sweet  laughter  put  it  by. 

But,  closer  nestling  to  her  mother's  heart. 

She,  blushing,  said  no  word  to  break  my  trance. 

For  I  was  breathless  ;  and,  witli  lips  apart. 
Felt  my  breast  pant  and  all  my  pulses  dance. 

And  strove  to  move,  but  could  not  for  the  weight 

Of  unbelieving  joy,  so  sudden  and  so  great, 


286  THK   FOUR   BRIDGKS. 

Because  she  loved  me.     With  a  mighty  sigh 
Breaking  away,  I  left  her  on  her  knees. 

And  blest  the  laurel  bower,  the  darkened  sky, 
The  sultry  night  of  August.     Through  the  trees, 

Giddy  with  gladness,  to  the  porch  I  went, 

And  hardly  found  the  way  for  joyful  wonderment. 

Yet,  when  I  entered,  saw  her  mother  sit 

"With  both  hands  cherishing  the  graceful  head, 

Smoothing  the  clustered  hair,  and  parting  it 
From  the  fair  brow ;  she,  rising,  only  said, 

In  the  accustomed  tone,  the  accustomed  word, 

The  careless  greeting  that  I  always  heard ; 

And  she  resumed  her  merry,  mocking  smile. 

Though  tear-drops  on  the  glistening  lashes  hung. 

O  woman  !  thou  wert  fashioned  to  beguile  : 
So  have  all  sages  said,  all  poets  sung. 

She  spoke  of  favoring  winds  and  waiting  ships, 

With  smiles  of  gratulation  on  her  lips  ! 

And  then  she  looked  and  faltered  :  I  had  grown 

So  suddenly'  In  life  and  soul  a  man  : 
She  moved  her  lips,  but  could  not  find  a  tone 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  287 

To  set  her  mocking  music  to  ;  began 
One  struggle  for  dominion,  raised  her  eyes, 
And  straight  withdrew  them,  bashful  through  surprise. 

The  color  over  cheek  and  bosom  flushed ; 

I  might  have  heard  the  beating  of  her  heart, 
But  that  mine  own  beat  louder ;  when  she  blushed, 

The  hand  within  mine  own  I  felt  to  start. 
But  would  not  change  my  pitiless  decree 
To  strive  with  her  for  might  and  mastery. 

She  looked  again,  as  one  that,  half  afraid,  ' 

Would  fain  be  certain  of  a  doubtful  thing; 

Or  (ftiG  beseecliing  "  Do  not  me  upbraid  !  " 
And  then  she  trembled  like  the  fluttering 

Of  timid  little  birds,  and  silent  stood. 

No  smile  wherewith  to  mock  my  hardihood. 

She  turned,  and  to  an  open  casement  moved 
With  girlish  shyness,  mute  beneath  my  gaze, 

And  I  on  downcast  lashes  unreproved 

Could  look  as  long  as  pleased  me  ;  while,  the  rays 

Of  moonlight  round  her,  she  her  fair  head  bent, 

In  modest  silence  to  my  words  attent. 


288  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

How  fast  the  giddy  whirling  moments  flew ! 

The  moon  had  set ;  I  heard  the  midnight  chime  ; 
Hope  is  more  brave  than  fear,  and  joy  than  dread, 

And  I  could  wait  unmoved  the  parting  time. 
It  came  ;  for  by  a  sudden  impulse  drawn. 
She,  risen,  stepped  out  upon  the  dusky  lawn. 

A  little  waxen  taper  in  her  hand, 

Her  feet  upon  the  dry  and  dewless  grass, 

She  looked  like  one  of  the  celestial  band, 
Only  that  on  her  cheeks  did  dawn  and  pass 

Most  human  blushes  ;  while,  the  soft  light  thrown 

On  vesture  pure  and  white,    she  seemed  yet   fairer 
grown.  • 

Her  mother,  looking  out  toward  her,  sighed. 
Then  gave  her  hand  in  token  of  farewell. 

And  with  her  warning  eyes,  that  seemed  to  chide. 
Scarce  suffered  that  I  sought  her  child  to  tell 

The  story  of  my  life,  whose  every  line 

No  other  burden  bore  than  —  Eglantine. 

Black  thunder-clouds  were  rising  up  behind. 

The  waxen  taper  burned  full  steadily  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  dark  midnight  had  a  mind 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  289 

To  hear  what  lovers  say,  and  her  decree 
Had  passed  for  silence,  while  she,  dropped  to  ground 
With  raiment  floating  wide,  drank  in  the  sound. 

0  happiness  !  thou  dost  not  leave  a  trace 
So  well  defined  as  sorrow.     Amber  light. 

Shed  like  a  glory  on  her  angel  face, 

I  can  remember  fully,  and  the  sight 
Of  her  fair  forehead  and  her  shining  eyes, 
And  lips  that  smiled  in  sweet  and  girlish  wise. 

1  canwemember  how  the  taper  played 

Over  her  small  hands  and  her  vesture  white ; 
How  it  struck  up  into  the  trees,  and  laid 

Upon  their  under  leaves  unwonted  light ; 
And  when  she  held  it  low,  how  far  it  spread 
O'er  velvet  pansies  slumbering  on  their  bed. 

I  can  remember  that  we  spoke  full  low. 
That  neither  doubted  of  the  other''s  truth ; 

And  that  with  footsteps  slower  and  more  slow. 
Hands  folded  close  for  love,  eyes  wet  for  ruth: 

Beneath  the  trees,  by  that  clear  taper's  flame, 

We  wander  till  the  gate  of  parting  came. 
19 


290  THE  FOUR   BRIDGES. 

But  I  forget  tlie  parting  words  she  said, 

So  much  they  thrilled  the  all-attentive  soul ; 

For  one  short  moment  human  heart  and  head 
May  bear  such  bliss  —  its  present  is  the  whole : 

I  had  that  present,  till  in  whispers  fell 

With  parting  gesture  her  subdued  farewell. 

Farewell !  she  said,  in  act  to  turn  away. 
But  stood  a  moment  still  to  dry  her  tears, 

And  suffered  my  enfolding  arm  to  stay 
The  time  of  her  departure.     O  ye  years 

That  intervene  betwixt  that  day  and  this  !  « 

You  all  received  your  hue  from  that  keen  pain  and  bliss. 

O  mingled  pain  and  bliss  !     O  pain  to  break 
At  once  from  happiness  so  lately  found, 

And  four  long  years  to  feel  for  her  sweet  sake 
The  incompleteness  of  all  sight  and  sound  ! 

But  bliss  to  cross  once  more  the  foaming  brine  — 

0  bliss  to  come  again  and  make  her  mine  ! 

1  cannot  —  O,  I  cannot  morn  recall ! 

But  I  will  soothe  my  troubled  thoughts  to  rest 
Witli  musing  over  journeyings  wide,  and  all 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  291 

Observance  of  this  active-humored  west, 
And  swarming  cities  steeped  in  eastern  day, 
With  swarthy  tribes  in  gold  and  striped  array. 

I  turn  from  these,  and  straight  there  will  succeed 
(Shifting  and  changing  at  the  restless  will), 

Imbedded  in  some  deep  Cii'cassian  mead, 

White  wagon-tilts,  and  flocks  that  eat  tlmir  fill 

Unseen  above,  while  comely  shepherds  pass. 

And  scarcely  show  their  heads  above  the  grass. 

—  The  red  Sahara  in  an  angry  glow. 

With  amber  fogs,  across  its  hollows  trailed 

Long  strings  of  camels,  gloomy-eyed  and  slow. 
And  women  on  their  necks,  from  gazers  veiled, 

And  sun-swart  guides  who  toil  across  the  sand 

To  groves  of  date-trees  on  the  watered  land. 

Again  —  the  brown  sails  of  an  Arab  boat. 

Flapping  by  night  upon  a  glassy  sea, 
Whereon  the  moon  and  planets  seem  to  float. 

More  bright  of  hue  than  they  were  wont  to  be. 
While  shooting-stars  rain  down  with  crackling  sound. 
And,  thick  as  swarming  locusts,  drop  to  ground. 


292  TUE   FOUR   BULDGES. 

Or  far  into  the  heat  among  the  sands 

The  gembok  nations,  snuffing  up  the  wind, 

Drawn  by  the  scent  of  water —  and  the  bands 
Of  tawny-bearded  lions  pacing,  blind 

With  the  sun-dazzle  in  their  midst,  opprest 

With  prey,  and  spiritless  for  lack  of  rest ! 

What  more  ?     Old  Lebanon,  the  frosty-browed, 
Setting  his  feet  among  oil-olive  trees. 

Heaving  his  bare  brown  shoulder  through  a  cloud ; 
And  after,  grassy  Cannel,  purple  seas, 

Flattering  his  dreams  and  echoing  in  his  rocks. 

Soft  as  the  bleating  of  his  thousand  flocks. 

Enough  :  how  vain  this  thinking  to  beguile, 
With  recollected  scenes,  an  aching  breast ! 

Did  not  I,  journeying,  muse  on  her  the  while  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  for  every  landscape  comes  impressed  — 

Ay,  written  on,  as  by  an  iron  pen  — 

With  the  same  thought  I  nursed  about  her  then. 

Therefore  let  memory  turn  again  to  home ; 

Feel,  as  of  old,  the  joy  of  drawing  near ; 
Watch  the  green  breakers  and  the  wind-tossed  foam, 


THE    FOUU   BRIDGES.  293 

And  see  tlic  land-fog  break,  dissolve,  and  clear ; 
Then  think  a  skylark's  voice  far  sweeter  sound 
Than  ever  thrilled  but  over  English  ground ; 

And  walk,  glad,  even  to  tears,  among  the  Avheat, 
Not  doubting  this  to  be  the  first  of  lands  ; 

And,  while  in  foreign  words  this  murmuring,  meet 
Some  little  village  schoolgirls  (with  their  hands 

Full  of  forget-me-nots) ,  who  greeting  me, 

I  count  iheir  English  talk  delightsome  melody; 

And  seat  me  on  a  bank,  and  draw  them  near. 
That  I  may  feast  myself  with  hearing  it, 

Till  shortly  they  forget  their  bashful  fear. 

Push  back  their  flaxen  curls,  and  round  me  sit  -^ 

Tell  me  their  names,  their  daily  tasks,  and  show 

Where  wild  wood  strawberries  in  the  copses  grow. 

So  passed  the  day  in  this  delightsome  land  : 

My  heart  was  thankful  for  the  English  tongue  — 

For  English  sky  with  feathery  cloudlets  spanned  — 
For  English  hedge  with  glistering  dewdrops  hung. 

I  journeyed,  and  at  glowing  eventide 

Stopped  at  a  rustic  inn  by  the  wayside. 


294  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

That  night  I  slumbered  sweetly,  being  right  glad 
To  miss  the  flapping  of  the  shrouds ;  but  lo  ! 

A  quiet  dream  of  beings  twain  I  had, 
Behind  the  curtain  talking  soft  and  low : 

Methought  I  did  not  heed  their  utterance  fine, 

Till  one  of  them  said  softly,  "  Eglantine." 

I  started  up  awake,  'twas  silence  all : 

My  own  fond  heart  had  shajied  that  utterance  clear ; 
And  "  Ah  ! "  methought,  "  how  sweetly  did  it  fall, 

Though  but  in  dream,  upon  the  listening  ear ! 
How  sweet  from  other  lips  the  name  well  known  — 
That  name,  so  many  a  year  heard  only  from  mine  own  I 

I  thought  awhile,  then  slumber  came  to  me, 

And  tangled  all  my  fancy  in  her  maze. 
And  I  was  drifting  on  a  raft  at  sea, 

The  near  all  ocean,  and  the  far  all  haze ; 
Through  the  white  polished  water  sharks  did  glide. 
And  up  in  heaven  I  saw  no  stars  to  guide. 

"  Have  mercy,  God  !  "  but  lo  !  my  raft,  uprose ; 
Drip,  drip,  I  heard  the  water  splash  from  it ; 
My  raft  had  wings,  and  as  the  petrel  goes, 


f 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  295 

It  skimmed  the  sea,  then  brooding  seemed  to  sit 
The  milk-wliite  mirror,  till,  with  sudden  spring, 
It  flew  straight  upward  like  a  living  thing. 

But  strange  !  —  I  went  not  also  in  that  flight, 
For  I  was  entering  at  a  cavern^s  mouth ; 

Trees  grew  within,  and  screaming  birds  of  night 
Sat  on  them,  hiding  from  the  torrid  south. 

On,  on  I  went,  while  gleaming  in  the  dark 

Those  trees  Avith  blanched  leaves  stood  pale  and  stark. 

The  trees  had  flower-buds,  nourished  in  deep  night. 

And  suddenly,  as  I  went  farther  in. 
They  opened,  and  they  shot  out  lambent  light ; 

Then  all  at  once  arose  a  railing  din 
That  frighted  me  :   "  It  is  the  ghosts,"  I  said, 
"And  they  are  railing  for  their  darkness  fled. 

'*  I  hope  they  will  not  look  me  in  the  face ; 

It  frighteth  me  to  hear  their  laughter  loud ; " 
I  saw  them  troop  before  with  jaunty  pace, 

And  one  would  shake  off  dust  that  soiled  her  shroud  : 
But  now,  O  joy  imhoped  !  to  calm  my  dread, 
Some  moonlifiht  filtered  throuijh  a  clefl  overhead. 


296  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

I  climbed  the  lofty  trees — the  blanched  trees  — 
The  cleft  Avas  wide  enough  to  let  me  through ; 

I  clambered  out  aud  felt  the  balmy  breeze, 

And  stepped  on  churchyard  grasses  wet  with  dew. 

0  happy  chance  !  O  fortune  to  admire  ! 

1  stood  beside  my  own  loved  village  spire. 

And  as  I  gazed  upon  the  yew-tree''s  trunk, 
Lo,  far  off  music  —  music  in  the  night! 

So  sweet  and  tender  as  it  swelled  and  sunk ; 
It  charmed  me  till  I  wept  with  keen  delight. 

And  in  my  dream,  methought  as  it  drew  near 

The  very  clouds  in  heaven  stooped  low  to  hear. 

Beat  high,  beat  low,  wild  heart  so  deeply  stirred. 
For  high  as  heaven  runs  up  the  piercing  strain ; 

The  restless  music  fluttering  like  a  bird 

Bemoaned  herself,  and  dropped  to  earth  again, 

Heaping  up  sweetness  till  I  was  afraid 

That  I  should  die  of  grief  when  it  did  fade. 

And  it  DID  fade ;  but  while  with  eager  ear 

I  drank  its  last  long  et^ho  dying  away, 
I  was  aware  of  footsteps  that  drew  near, 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  297 

And  round  the  ivied  chancel  seemed  to  stray : 

0  soft  above  the  luillowed  2>lac'e  they  trod  — 
Soft  as  the  fall  of  foot  that  is  not  shod ! 

1  turned  —  'twas  even  so  —  yes,  Eglantine! 

For  at  the  first  I  had  divined  the  same ; 
I  saw  the  moon  on  her  shut  eyelids  shine, 

And  said  "  She  is  asleep  :  "  still  on  she  came  ; 
Then,  on  her  dimpled  feet,  I  saw  it  gleam. 
And  thouglit  —  "  I  know  that  this  is  but  a  dream." 

My  darling  !  O  my  darling  !  not  the  less 
My  dream  went  on  because  I  knew  it  such ; 

She  came  towards  me  in  her  loveliness  — 

A  thing  too  pure,  methought,  for  mortal  touch; 

The  rippling  gold  did  on  her  bosom  meet. 

The  long  white  robe  descended  to  her  feet. 

The  fringed  lids  dropped  low,  as  sleep-oppressed ; 

Her  dreamy  smile  was  very  fair  to  see. 
And  her  two  hands  were  folded  to  her  breast, 

With  somewhat  held  between  them  heedfuUy. 
O  fast  asleep  !  and  yet  methought  she  knew 
And  felt  my  nearness  those  shut  eyelids  through. 


298  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

She  sighed :  my  tears  ran  down  for  tenderness  — 
"  And  have  I  drawn  thee  to  me  in  my  sleep  ? 

Is  it  for  me  thou  wanderest  shelterless, 
Wetting  thy  steps  in  dewy  grasses  deep? 

0  if  this  be  !  "  I  said  —  "yet  speak  to  me ; 

1  blame  my  very  dream  for  cruelty." 

Then  from  her  stainless  bosom  she  did  take 
Two  beauteous  lily  flowers  that  lay  therein, 

And  with  slow-moving  lips  a  gesture  make, 
As  one  that  some  forgotten  words  doth  win : 

"  They  floated  on  the  pool,"  mcthought  she  said. 

And  water  trickled  from  each  lily's  head. 

It  dropped  upon  her  feet  —  I  saw  it  gleam 

Along  the  ripples  of  her  yellow  hair. 
And  stood  apart,  for  only  in  a  dream 

She  would  have  come,  methought,  to  meet  me  there. 
She  spoke  again  —  '•  Ah  fair  !  ah  fresh  tliey  shine ! 
And  there  are  many  left,  and  these  are  mine." 

I  answered  her  with  flattering  accents  meet  — 

"Love,  they  are  whitest  lilies  e'er  were  blown." 
"And  sayest  thou  so?"  she  sighed  in  murmurs  sweet; 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  299 

"  I  have  nought  else  to  give  thee  now,  mine  own ! 
For  it  is  night.     Then  take  them,  love  ! "  said  she  : 
"  They  have  been  costly  flowers  to  thee  —  and  me." 

While  thus  she  said  I  took  them  from  her  hand. 
And,  overcome  with  love  and  nearness,  woke  ; 

And  overcome  with  ruth  that  she  should  stand 
Barefooted  on  the  grass ;  that,  when  she  spoke, 

Her  mystic  words  should  take  so  SAveet  a  tone. 

And  of  all  names  her  lips  should  choose  "My  own." 

I  rose,  I  journeyed,  neared  my  home,  and  soon 
Beheld  the  spire  peer  out  above  the  hill : 

It  was  a  sunny  harvest  afternoon. 

When  by  the  churchyard  wicket,  standing  still, 

I  cast  my  eager  eyes  abroad  to  know 

If  change  had  touched  the  scenes  of  long  ago. 

I  looked  across  the  hollow  ;  sunbeams  shone 
Upon  the  old  house  with  the  gable  ends : 

"  Save  that  the  laurel-trees  are  taller  grown. 

No  change,"  methought,  "  to  its  grey  wall  extends. 

What  clear  bright  beams  on  yonder  lattice  shine  ! 

There  did  I  sometime  talk  with  Eglantine." 


300  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

There  standing  with  my  very  goal  in  sight, 

Over  my  haste  did  sudden  quiet  steal ; 
I  thought  to  dally  with  my  own  delight, 

Nor  rush  on  headlong  to  my  garnered  weal, 
But  taste  the  sweetness  of  a  short  delay, 
And  for  a  little  moment  hold  the  bliss  at  bay. 

The  church  was  open  ;  it  perchance  might  be 
That  there  to  offer  thanks  I  might  essay. 

Or  rather,  as  I  think,  that  I  might  see 

The  place  where  Eglantine  was  wont  to  pray. 

But  so  it  was  ;  I  crossed  that  portal  wide. 

And  felt  my  riot  joy  to  calm  subside. 

The  low  depending  curtains,  gently  swayed. 
Cast  over  arcli  and  roof  a  crimson  glow ; 

But,  nevertheless,  all  silence  and  all  shade 
It  seemed,  save  only  for  the  rippling  flow 

Of  their  long  foldings,  when  the  sunset  air 

Sighed  through  the  casements  of  the  house  of  prayer. 

I  found  her  place,  the  ancient  oaken  stall, 

Where  in  her  childhood  I  had  seen  lier  sit, 
Most  saint-like  and  most  tranquil  there  of  all. 


THE  FOUIi  BRIDGES.  301 

Folding  her  liaiuls,  as  if  a  dreaming  fit  — 
A  heavenly  vision  had  before  her  strayed 
Of  the  Eternal  Child  in  lowly  manger  laid. 

I  saw  her  prayer-book  laid  upon  the  seat, 
And  took  it  in  ray  hand,  and  felt  more  near 

In  fancy  to  her,  finding  it  most  sweet 

To  think  how  very  oft,  low  kneeling  there, 

In  her  devout  thoughts  she  had  let  me  share. 

And  set  my  graceless  name  in  her  pure  prayer. 

My  eyes  were  dazzled  with  delightful  tears  — 
In  sooth  they  were  the  last  I  ever  shed  ; 

For  with  them  fell  the  cherished  dreams  of  years. 
I  looked,  and  on  the  wall  above  my  head, 

Over  her  seat,  there  was  a  tablet  placed. 

With  one  word  only  on  the  marble  traced.  — 

Ah,  well !  I  would  not  overstate  that  woe, 
For  I  have  had  some  blessings,  little  care ; 

But  since  the  filling  of  that  heavy  blow, 

God's  earth  has  never  seemed  to  me  so  fair ; 

Nor  any  of  His  creatures  so  divine. 

Nor  sleep  so  sweet ;  —  the  word  was  —  Eglantine. 


302 


A  MOTHER   SHOWING    THE    PORTRAIT  OF 
HER  CHILD. 

(F.   M.   L.) 


Said- 


TYING  CHILD  or  pictured  cherub 
Ne''er  o'ermatched  its  baby  grace ; 
And  the  mother,  moving  nearer, 
Looked  it  calmly  in  the  face ; 
Then  with  slight  and  quiet  gesture, 
And    with     lips     that    scarcely 
smiled, 
- "  A  Portrait  of  my  daughter 
When  she  was  a  child." 


Easy  thought  was  hers  to  fathom. 
Nothing  hard  her  glance  to  read. 

For  it  seemed  to  say,  "  No  praises 
For  this  little  child  I  need : 


A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT.     303 

If  you  see,  I  see  far  better, 

i\jid  I  will  not  feign  to  care 
For  a  stranger's  prompt  assurance 
That  the  face  is  fair," 


Softly  clasped  and  half  extended. 
She  her  dimpled  hands  doth  lay : 

So  they  doubtless  placed  them,  saying  — 
•'  Little  one,  you  must  not  play." 

And  while  yet  his  work  was  growing. 
This  the  painter's  hand  hath  shown. 

That  the  little  heart  was  making 
Pictures  of  its  own. 


Is  it  warm  in  that  green  valley, 

Vale  of  childhood,  where  you  dwell? 

Is  it  calm  in  that  green  valley. 

Round  whose  bournes  such  groat  hills  swell  ? 

Are  there  giants  in  the  valley  — 
Giants  leaving  footprints  yet  ? 

Are  there  angels  in  the  valley  ? 
Tell  me  —  I  forget. 


304     A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHLLD'S  PORTRAIT. 

Answer,  answer,  for  the  lilies. 

Little  one,  overtop  you  much, 
And  the  mealy  gold  within  them 

You  can  scarcely  reach  to  touch ; 
O  how  far  their  aspect  differs. 

Looking  up  and  looking  down  ! 
You  look  up  in  that  green  vaUcy  — 
Valley  of  renown. 


Are  there  voices  in  the  valley. 
Lying  near  the  heavenly  gate  ? 

When  it  opens,  do  the  harp-strings. 
Touched  within,  reverberate  ? 

When,  like  shooting-stars,  the  angels 
To  your  couch  at  nightfall  go. 

Are  their  swift  wings  heard  to  rustle? 
Tell  me  !  for  you  know. 


Yes,  you  know ;  and  you  are  silent. 

Not  a  word  shall  asking  wui ; 
Little  mouth  more  sweet  thau  rosebud 

Fast  it  locks  the  secret  in. 


A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT.     305 

Not  a  glimpse  upon  your  present 

You  unfold  to  glad  my  view  ; 
Ah,  what  secrets  of  your  futui'e 
I  could  tell  to  you  ! 


Sunny  present !  thus  I  read  it, 
By  remembrance  of  my  past :  — 

Its  to-day  and  its  to-morrow 
Are  as  lifetimes  vague  and  vast ; 

And  each  face  in  that  green  valley 
Takes  for  yo"u  an  aspect  mild, 

And  each  voice  grows  soft  in  saying  — • 
*'  Iviss  me,  little  child ! " 


As  a  boon  the  kiss  is  granted : 
Baby  mouth,  your  toucli  is  sweet, 

Takes  the  love  without  the  trouble 
From  those  lips  that  with  it  meet ; 

Gives  the  love,  O  pure  !  O  tender! 
Of  the  valley  where  it  grows, 

But  the  baby  heart  receiveth 

More  than  it  bestows. 

20 


30G    A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT. 

Comes  the  future  to  the  present  — 

"  Ah  !  "  she  saith,  "  too  blithe  of  mood ; 

Why  that  smile  which  seems  to  whisper  — 
'  I  am  happy,  God  is  good '  ? 

God  IS  good  :  that  truth  eternal 
Sown  for  you  in  happier  years, 

I  must  tend  it  in  my  shadow. 
Water  it  with  tears. 


"  Ah,  sweet  present !  I  must  lead  thee 
By  a  daylight  more  subdued ; 

There  must  teach  thee  low  to  whisper — 
'  I  am  mournful,  God  is  good  !'  " 

Peace,  thou  future  !  clouds  are  coming, 
Stooping  from  the  mountain  crest. 

But  that  sunshine  floods  the  valley 
Let  her  —  let  her  rest. 


Comes  the  future  to  the  present  — 

"  Child,"  she  saith,  "  and  wilt  thou  rest? 

How  long,  child,  before  thy  footsteps 
Fret  to  reach  yon  cloudy  crest  ? 


A  MOTHER  SnOWIXG  HER  CH1LD''S  PORTRAIT.    307 

Ah,  the  valley  !  —  angels  guard  it, 

But  the  heights  are  brave  to  see  ; 

Looking  down  were  long  contentment : 

Come  up,  child,  to  me." 


So  she  speaks,  but  do  not  heed  her. 
Little  maid  with  wondrous  eyes. 

Not  afraid,  but  clear  and  tender. 
Blue,  and  filled  with  prophecies ; 

Thou  for  whom  life's  veil  unlifted 
Hangs,  whom  warmest  valleys  fold, 

Lift  the  veil,  the  charm  dissolveth  — 
Climb,  but  heights  are  cold. 


There  are  buds  that  fold  within  them, 
Closed  and  covered  from  our  sight, 

Many  a  richly-tinted  petal. 
Never  looked  on  by  the  light : 

Fain  to  see  their  shrouded  faces. 
Sun  and  dew  are  long  at  strife. 

Till  at  length  the  sweet  buds  open  — 
Such  a  bud  is  life. 


803     A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD'S  TORTRAIT. 

When  the  rose  of  thine  own  being 

Shall  reveal  its  central  fold, 
Thou  shalt  look  within  and  marvel, 

Fearing  what  thine  eyes  behold  ; 
What  it  shows  and  what  it  teaches 

Are  not  things  wherewith  to  part ; 
Thorny  rose  !  that  always  costeth 
Beatings  at  the  heart. 


Look  in  fear,  for  there  is  dlrrmess ; 

Ills  unshapen  float  anigh. 
Look  in  awe  :  for  this  same  nature 

Once  the  Godhead  deigned  to  die. 
Look  in  love,  for  He  doth  love  it, 

And  its  tale  is  best  of  lore  : 
Still  humanity  grows  dearer, 

Beinjr  learned  the  more. 


Learn,  but  not  the  less  bethink  thee 
How  that  all  can  mingle  tears ; 

But  his  joy  can  none  discover. 
Save  to  them  that  are  his  peers ; 


A  MOTHER  snowi^ra  her  child's  portrait.    309 

And  that  they  whose  lips  do  utter 

Language  such  as  bards  have  sung  — 
Lo !  their  speech  shall  be  to  many 
As  an  unknown  tongue 

Learn,  that  if  to  thee  the  meaning 

Of  all  other  eyes  be  shown, 
Fewer  eyes  can  ever  front  thee, 

That  are  skilled  to  read  thine  own ; 
And  that  if  thy  love's  deep  current 

Many  another's  far  outflows. 
Then  thy  heart  must  take  for  ever 
Less  thajsj  it  bestows. 


310 


STRIFE  AND  PEACE. 


Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  October,  1861. 


HE  yellow  poplar  leaves  came  down 
And  like  a  carpet  lay, 
No  waftings  were  in  the  sunny  air 

To  flutter  them  away  ; 
And  he  stepped  on  blithe  and  deb- 
onair 
That  warm  October  day. 


*'  The  boy,"  saith  he,  "  hath  got  his  own, 

But  sore  has  been  the  fight, 
For  ere  his  life  began  the  strife 

That  ceased  but  yesternight ; 
For  the  will,"  he  said,  "the  kinsfolk  read. 

And  read  it  not  arijrht. 


STRIFE   AND   PEACE.  311 

*'  His  cause  was  argued  in  the  court 

Before  his  christening  day, 
And  counsel  was  heard,  and  judge  demurred. 

And  bitter  waxed  the  fray  ; 
Brother  with  brother  spake  no  word 

When  they  met  in  the  way. 

"  Against  each  one  did  each  contend. 

And  all  against  the  heir. 
I  would  not  bend,  for  I  knew  the  end  — 

I  have  it  for  my  share, 
And  nought  repent,  though  my  first  friend 

From  henceforth  I  must  spare. 

' '  Manor  and  moor  and  farm  and  wold 

Their  greed  begrudged  him  sore, 
And  parchments  old  with  passionate  hold 

They  guarded  heretofore ; 
And  they  carped  at  signature  and  seal, 

But  they  may  carp  no  more. 

"An  old  affront  will  stir  the  heart 
Through  years  of  rankling  pain. 
And  I  feel  the  fret  that  urged  me  yet 


312  STRIFE   AND   PEACE. 

That  warfare  to  maintain ; 
For  an  enemy's  loss  may  well  be  set 
Above  an  infant's  gain. 

"  An  enemy's  loss  I  go  to  prove ; 

Laugh  out,  thou  little  heir  ! 
Laugh  in  his  face  who  vowed  to  chase 

Thee  from  thy  birthright  fair ; 
For  I  come  to  set  thee  in  thy  place : 

Laugh  out,  and  do  not  spare." 

A  man  of  strife,  in  wrathful  mood 
He  neared  the  nurse's  door ; 

With  poplar  leaves  the  roof  and  eaves 
Were  thickly  scattered  o'er, 

And  yellow  as  they  a  sunbeam  lay 
Along  the  cottage  floor. 

"  Sleep  on,  thou  pretty,  pretty  lamb," 
He  hears  the  fond  nurse  say ; 

"  And  if  angels  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
As  now  belike  they  may, 

And  if  angels  meet  at  thy  bed's  feet, 
I  fear  them  not  this  dav. 


STRIFE  AND  PEACE.  313 

"  Come  wealth,  come  want  to  thee,  dear  heart, 

It  was  all  one  to  me, 
1  or  thy  pretty  tongue  far  sweeter  rung 

Than  coined  gold  and  fee  ; 
And  ever  the  while  thy  waking  smile 

It  was  right  fair  to  see. 

''  Sleep,  pretty  bairn,  and  never  know 
Who  grudged  and  who  transgressed ; 

Thee  to  retain  I  was  full  fain. 
But  God,  He  knoweth  best ! 

And  His  peace  upon  thy  brow  lies  plain 
As  the  sunshine  on  thy  breast ! " 

The  man  of  strife,  he  enters  in, 

Looks,  and  liis  \n-\dc  doth  cease ; 
Anger  and  sorrow  shall  be  to-morrow 

Trouble,  and  nq  release  ; 
But  the  babe  whose  life  awoke  the  strife 

Hath  entered  into  peace. 


I 


STORY  OF   DOOM 


AND    OTHER   POEMS. 


POEMS. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CMIE  TRUE. 

I    SAW  in  a  vision  once,  our  mother-sphere 
The  worhl,  her  fixed  foredoomed  oval  tracing, 
Rolling  and  rolling  on  and  resting  never, 

While  like  a  phantom  fell,  behind  her  pacing 
The  unfurled  flag  of  night,  her  shadow  drear 
Fled  as  she  fled  and  hung  to  her  forever. 

Great  Heaven !  methought,  how  strange  a  doom  to  share, 

Would  I  may  never  bear 

Inevitable  darkness  after  me 
(Darkness  endowed  with  drawings  strong. 

And  shadowy  hands  that  cling  unendingly). 

Nor  feel  that  phantom-wings  behind  me  sweep, 
As  she  feels  night  pursuing  through  the  long 

Illimitable  reaches  of  "  the  vasty  deep." 


2         THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

God  save  you,  gentlefolks.     There  was  a  man 
Who  lay  awake  at  midnight  on  his  bed, 

Watching  the  spiral  flame  that  feeding  ran 
Among  the  logs  upon  his  hearth,  and  shed 

A  comfortable  glow,  both  warm  and  dim, 

On  crimson  curtains  that  encompassed  him. 

Eight  stately  was  his  chamber,  soft  and  white 
The  pillow,  and  his  quilt  was  eider-down. 

What  mattered  it  to  him  through  all  that  night 
The  desolate  driving  cloud  might  lower  and  frown, 

And  winds  were  up  the  eddying  sleet  to  chase, 

That  drave  and  drave  and  found  no  settling-place  ? 

What  mattered  it  that  leafless  trees  might  rock, 
Or  snow  might  drift  athwart  his  window-pane  ? 

He  bare  a  charmed  life  against  their  shock. 
Secure  from  cold,  hunger,  and  weather  stain  ; 

Fixed  in  his  right,  and  born  to  good  estate, 

From  common  ills  set  by  and  separate. 

From  work  and  want  and  fear  of  want  apart, 

This  man  (men  called  him  Justice  Wilvermore)  — 
This  man  had  comforted  his  cheerful  heart 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

With  all  that  it  desired  from  every  shore, 
He  had  a  right,  —  the  right  of  gold  is  strong,  — 
He  stood  upon  his  right  his  whole  life  long. 

Custom  makes  all  things  easy,  and  content 
Is  careless,  therefore  on  the  storm  and  cold, 

As  he  lay  waking,  never  a  thought  he  spent, 
Albeit  across  the  vale  beneath  the  wold, 

Along  a  reedy  mere  that  frozen  lay, 

A  range  of  sordid  hovels  stretched  away. 

What  cause  had  he  to  think  on  them,  forsooth  ? 

What  cause  that  night  beyond  another  night  ? 
He  was  familiar  even  from  his  youth 

With  their  long  ruin  and  their  evil  plight. 
The  wintry  wind  would  search  them  like  a  scout, 
The  water  froze  within  as  freely  as  without. 

He  think  upon  them  ?     No  !     They  were  forlorn. 
So  were  the  cowering  inmates  whom  they  held ; 

A  thriftless  tribe,  to  shifts  and  leanness  born. 
Ever  complaining :  infancy  or  eld 

Alike.     But  there  was  rent,  or  long  ago 

Those  cottagre  roofs  had  met  with  overthrow. 


4         THE  DKEAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

For  this  they  stood  ;  and  what  his  thoughts  might  be 
This  winter  night,  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 

That,  while  the  creeping  flame  fed  silently 
And  cast  upon  his  bed  a  crimson  glow, 

The  Justice  slept,  and  shortly  in  his  sleep 

He  fell  to  dreaming,  and  his  dream  was  deep. 

He  dreamed  that  over  him  a  shadow  came  ; 

And  when  he  looked  to  find  the  cause,  behold 
Some  person  knelt  between  him  and  the  flame :  — 

A  cowering  figure  of  one  frail  and  old,  — 
A  woman  ;  and  she  prayed  as  he  descried, 
And  spi'ead  her  feeble  hands,  and  shook  and  sighed. 

"  Good  Heaven  ! "  the  Justice  cried,  and  being  distraught 
He  called  not  to  her,  but  he  looked  again : 

She  wore  a  tattered  cloak,  but  she  had  naught 
Upon  her  head;  and  she  did  quake  amain. 

And  spread  her  wasted  hands  and  poor  attire 

To  gather  in  the  brightness  of  his  fire. 

"  I  know  you,  woman  !  "  then  the  Justice  cried  ,• 

"  I  know  that  woman  well,"  he  cried  aloud  ; 
"  The  .shepherd  Aveland's  widow  :  God  me  guide  ! 


THE    DREAMS    THAT    CAME    TltUE. 

A  pauper  kneeling  on  my  hearth  "  :  and  bowed, 
The  hag,  like  one  at  home,  its  warmth  to  share  ! 
"  How  dares  she  to  intrude  ?     What  does  she  here  ? 

"  Ho,  woman,  ho  ! "  —  but  yet  she  did  not  stir, 
Though  from  her  lips  a  fitful  plaining  broke  ; 

"I'll  ring  my  people  up  to  deal  with  her; 

I  '11  rouse  the  house,"  he  cried  ;  but  while  he  spoke 

He  turned,  and  saw,  but  distant  from  his  bed, 

Another  form,  —  a  Darkness  with  a  head. 

Then,  in  a  rage,  he  shouted  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 
For  little  in  the  gloom  he  might  discern. 

"  Speak  out ;  speak  now  ;  or  I  will  make  }ou  rue 
The  hour ! "  but  there  was  silence,  and  a  stern. 

Dark  face  from  out  the  dusk  appeared  to  lean. 

And  then  again  drew  back,  and  was  not  seen. 

"  God  ! "  cried  the  dreaming  man,  right  impiously, 

"  What  have  I  done,  that  these  my  sleep  affray  '?  " 
"  God  !"  said  the  Phantom,  "  I  appeal  to  Thee, 
Appoint  Thou  me  this  man  to  be  my  prey." 
"  God  !"  sighed  the  kneeling  woman,  frail  and  old, 
"  I  pray  Thee  take  me,  for  the  world  is  cold." 


6         THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

Then  said  tbe  trembling  Justice,  in  affright, 

"  Fiend,  I  adjure  thee,  speak  thine  errand  here  !" 

And  lo  !  it  pointed  in  the  falling  light 

Toward  the  woman,  answering,  cold  and  clear, 

"  Thou  art  ordained  an  answer  to  thy  prayer ; 

But  first  to  tell  her  tale  that  kneeleth  there." 

"  Her  tale  !  "  the  Justice  cried.     "  A  pauper's  tale  ! " 
And  he  took  heart  at  this  so  low  behest, 

And  let  the  stoutness  of  his  will  prevail, 

Demanding,  "  Is  't  for  her  you  break  my  rest  ? 

She  went  to  jail  of  late  for  stealing  wood, 

She  will  again  for  this  night's  hardihood. 

"  I  sent  her ;  and  to-morrow,  as  I  live, 
I  will  commit  her  for  this  trespass  here." 

"  Thou  wilt  not !  "  quoth  the  Shadow,  *'  thou  wilt  give 
Her  story  words  "  ;  and  then  it  stalked  ancar 

And  showed  a  lowering  face,  and,  dread  to  sec, 

A  countenance  of  angered  majesty.  * 

Then  said  the  Justice,  all  his  thoughts  astray. 
With  that  material  Darkness  chiding  him, 
"  If  this  must  be,  then  speak  to  her,  I  pray. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.         7 

And  bid  her  move,  for  all  the  room  is  dim 
By  reason  of  the  phice  she  holds  to-night : 
She  kneels  between  me  and  the  warmth  and  light." 

"  With  adjurations  deep  and  drawings  strong, 
And  ^vith  the  power,"  it  said,  "  unto  me  given, 

I  call  upon  thee,  man,  to  tell  thy  wrong, 
Or  look  no  more  upon  the  face  of  Heaven. 

Speak  !  though  she  kneel  throughout  the  livelong  night, 

And  yet  shall  kneel  between  thee  and  the  light." 

This  when  the  Justice  heard,  he  raised  his  hands, 

And  held  them  as  the  dead  in  effigy 
Hold  theirs,  when  carved  upon  a  tomb.     The  bands 

Of  fate  had  bound  him  fast :  no  remedy 
Was  left  :  his  voice  unto  himself  was  strange. 
And  that  unearthly  vision  did  not  change. 

He  said,  "  That  woman  dwells  anear  my  door, 
Her  life  and  mine  began  the  selfsame  day, 

And  I  am  hale  and  hearty  :  fi'om  my  store 
I  never  spared  her  aught :  she  takes  her  way 

Of  me  unheeded ;  pining,  pinching  care 

Is  all  the  portion  that  she  has  to  share. 


8         THE  DRKAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

"  She  is  a  broken-down,  poor,  friendless  wight, 
Through  labor  and  through  sorrow  early  old  ; 

And  I  have  known  of  this  her  evil  plight, 
Her  scanty  earnings,  and  her  lodgment  cold  ; 

A  patienter  poor  soul  shall  ne'er  be  found  : 

She  labored  on  my  land  the  long  year  round. 

"  ^Vhat  wouldst  thou  have  me  say,  thou  fiend  abhorred  ? 

Show  me  no  more  thine  awful  visage  grim. 
If  thou  obey'st  a  greater,  tell  thy  lord 

That  I  have  paid  her  wages.  Cry  to  him ! 
He  has  not  much  against  me.  None  can  say 
I  have  not  paid  her  wages  day  by  day. 

"  The  spell !     It  draws  me.     I  must  speak  again  ; 

And  speak  against  myself;  and  speak  aloud. 
The  woman  once  approached  me  to  complain,  — 

'  My  wages  are  so  low.'     I  may  be  proud  ; 
It  is  a  fault."     "  Ay,"  quoth  the  Phantom  fell, 
"  Sinner  !  it  is  a  fault :  thou  sayest  well." 

*'  She  made  her  moan,  '  INIy  wages  arc  so  low.'" 

"  Tell  on ! "    "  She  said,"  he  answered,  " '  My  best  days 
Are  ended,  and  the  summer  is  but  slow 


I 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TKUE.         9 

To  come ;  and  my  good  strength  for  work  decays 
By  reason  that  I  live  so  hard,  and  lie 
On  winter  nights  so  bare  for  poverty.' " 

"  And  you  replied," —  began  the  lowering  shade, 
"  And  I  replied,"  the  Justice  followed  on, 

"  That  wages  like  to  mine  my  neighbor  paid  ; 
And  if  I  raised  the  wages  of  the  one 

Straight  should  the  others  murmur  ;  furthermore, 

The  winter  was  as  winters  gone  before, 

"  No  colder  and  not  longer."     "  Afterward  ?  "  — 

The  Phantom  questioned.     "  Afterward,"  he  groaned, 

"  She  said  my  neighbor  was  a  right  good  lord, 
Never  a  roof  was  broken  that  he  owned ; 

He  gave  much  coal  and  clothing.     '  Doth  he  so  ? 

Work  for  my  neighbor,  then,'  I  answered.     '  Go ! 

*' '  You  are  full  welcome.'     Then  she  mumWed  out 
She  hoped  I  was  not  angry  ;  hoped,  forsooth, 

I  would  forgive  her :  and  I  turned  about, 
And  said  I  should  be  angry  in  good  truth 

If  this  should  be  again,  or  ever  more 

She  dared  to  stop  me  thus  at  the  church  door." 


10        THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

"  Tlien  ?  "  quoth  the  Shade  ;  and  he,  constrained,  said 
on, 

"  Then  she,  reproved,  curtseyed  herself  away." 
"  Hast  met  her  since  ?  "  it  made  demand  anon  ; 

And  after  pause  the  Justice  answered,  "  Ay  ; 
Some  wood  was  stolen ;  my  people  made  a  stir : 
She  was  accused,  and  I  did  sentence  her." 

But  yet,  and  yet,  the  dreaded  questions  came  : 

"  And     didst     thou    weigh     the     matter,  —  taking 
thought 

Upon  her  sober  life  and  honest  fame  ?  " 

"  I  gave  it,"  he  replied,  with  gaze  distraught ; 

"  I  gave  it.  Fiend,  the  usual  care  ;  I  took 

The  usual  pains  ;  I  could  not  nearer  look, 

"  Because  —  because  their  pilfering  had  got  head. 
What  wouldst  thou  more  ?     The  neighbors  pleaded 

hard, 
'T  is  true,  and  many  tears  the  creature  shed  ; 

But  I  had  vowed  their  prayers  to  disregard, 
Heavily  strike  the  first  that  robbed  my  land, 
And  put  down  thieving  with  a  steady  hand. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.        11 

"  She  said  she  was  not  guilty.     Ay,  't  is  true 

She  said  so,  but  the  poor  are  liars  all. 
O  thou  fell  Fiend,  what  wilt  thou  ?     Must  I  view 

Thy  darkness  yet,  and  must  thy  shadow  fall 
Upon  me  miserable  ?     I  have  done 
No  worse,  no  more  than  many  a  scathless  one." 

"  Yet,"  quoth  the  Shade,  "  if  ever  to  thine  ears 
The  knowledge  of  her  blamelessness  was  brought, 

Or  others  have  confessed  with  dying  tears 

The  crime  she  suffered  for,  and  thou  hast  wrought 

All  reparation  in  thy  power,  and  told 

Into  her  empty  hand  thy  brightest  gold  :  — 

"  If  thou  hast  honored  her,  and  hast  proclaimed 
Her  innocence  and  thy  deplored  wrong. 

Still  thou  art  naught ;  for  thou  shalt  yet  be  blamed 
In  that  she,  feeble,  came  before  thee,  strong, 

And  thou,  in  cruel  haste  to  deal  a  blow. 

Because  thou  hadst  been  angered,  worked  her  woe. 

"But  didst  thou  right  her?   Speak!"  The  Justice  sighed, 

And  beaded  drops  stood  out  upon  his  brow ; 
"  How  could  I  hiunble  me,"  forlorn  he  cried, 


12        THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

"  To  a  base  beggar  ?     Nay,  I  will  avow 
That  I  did  ill.     I  will  reveal  the  whole  ; 
I  kept  that  knowledge  in  my  secret  soul." 

"  Hear  him  !  "  the  Phantom  muttered ;  "  hear  this  man, 
O  changeless  God  upon  the  judgment  throne." 

With  that,  cold  tremors  through  his  pulses  ran, 
And  lamentably  he  did  make  his  moan  ; 

While,  with  its  arms  upraised  above  his  head, 

The  dim  dread  visitor  approached  his  bed. 

"  Into  these  doors,"  it  said,  "  which  thou  hast  closed, 
Daily  this  woman  shall  from  henceforth  come  ; 

Her  kneeling  form  shall  yet  be  interposed. 

Till  all  thy  wretched  hours  have  told  their  sum,  — 

Shall  yet  be  interposed  by  day,  by  night, 

Between  thee,  sinner,  and  the  warmth  and  light. 

"  Remembrance  of  her  want  shall  make  thy  meal 
Like  ashes,  and  thy  wrong  thou  shalt  not  right. 

But  what.!     Nay,  verily,  nor  wealth  nor  weal 
From  henceforth  shall  afford  thy  soul  delight. 

Till  men  shall  lay  thy  head  beneath  the  sod, 

There  shall  be  no  deliverance,  saith  my  God." 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.        13 

"  Tell  me  thy  name,"  the  dreaming  Justice  cried  : 
"  By  what  appointment  dost  thou  doom  me  thus  ?  " 

"  'T  is  Tvell  that  thou  shouldst  know  me,"  it  replied, 
"  For  mine  thou  art,  and  naught  shall  sever  us  ; 

From  thine  own  lips  and  life  I  draw  my  force : 

The  name  thy  nation  give  me  is  Remorse." 

This  when  he  heard,  the  dreaming  man  cried  out, 
And  woke  affrighted  ;  and  a  crimson  glow 

The  dying  ember  shed.     AVithin,  without, 
In  eddying  rings  the  silence  seemed  to  flow ; 

Tlie  wind  had  lulled,  and  on  his  forehead  shone 

The  last  low  gleam  ;  he  was  indeed  alone. 

"  O,  I  have  had  a  fearful  dream,"  said  he ; 

"  I  will  take  warning  and  for  mercy  trust ; 
The  fiend  Remorse  shall  never  dwell  with  me  : 

I  will  repair  that  wrong,  I  will  be  just, 
I  will  be  kind,  I  will  my  ways  amend." 
Noto  the  Jirst  cheam  is  told  unto  its  end. 

Anigh  the  frozen  mere  a  cottage  stood, 

A  piercing  wind  swept  round  and  shook  the  door, 
The  shrunken  door,  and  easy  way  made  good, 


14        THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

And  drave  long  drifts  of  snow  along  the  floor. 
It  sparkled  there  like  diamonds,  for  the  moon 
Was  shining  in,  and  night  was  at  the  noon. 

Before  her  dying  embers,  bent  and  pale, 
A  woman  sat  because  her  bed  was  cold  ; 

She  heard  the  wind,  the  driving  sleet  and  hail, 
And  she  was  hunger-bitten,  weak,  and  old ; 

Yet  while  she  cowered,  and  while  the  casement  shook, 

Upon  her  trembling  knees  she  held  a  book  — 

A  comfortable  book  for  them  that  mourn, 
And  good  to  raise  the  courage  of  the  poor ; 

It  lifts  the  veil  and  shows,  beyond  the  bourne, 
Their  Elder  Brother,  from  His  home  secure. 

That  for  them  desolate  He  died  to  win, 

Repeating,  "  Come,  ye  blessed,  enter  in." 

What  thought  she  on,  this  woman  ?  on  her  days 
Of  toil,  or  on  the  supperless  night  forlorn  ? 

I  think  not  so ;  the  heart  but  seldom  weighs 
With  conscious  care  a  burden  always  borne ; 

And  she  was  used  to  these  things,  had  grown  old 

In  fellowship  with  toil,  hunger,  and  cold. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.        15 

Then  did  she  think  how  sad  it  was  to  live 
Of  all  the  good  this  world  can  yield  bereft  ? 

No,  her  untutored  thoughts  she  did  not  give 
To  such  a  theme ;  but  in  their  warp  and  weft 

She  wove  a  prayer :  then  in  the  midnight  deep 

Faintly  and  slow  she  fell  away  to  sleep. 

A  strange,  a  marvellous  sleep,  which  brought  a  dream, 
And  it  was  this :  that  all  at  once  she  heard 

The  pleasant  babbling  of  a  little  stream 
That  ran  beside  her  door,  and  then  a  bird 

Broke  out  in  songs.     She  looked,  and  lo  !  the  rime 

And  snow  had  melted  ;  it  was  summer  time  ! 

And  all  the  cold  was  over,  and  the  mere 

Full  sweetly  ywayed  the  flags  and  rushes  green ; 

The  mellow  sunlight  poured  right  warm  and  clear 
Into  her  casement,  and  thereby  were  seen 

Fair  honeysuckle  flowers,  and  wandering  bees 

Were  hovering  round  the  blossom-laden  trees. 

She  said,  "  I  will  betake  mc  to  my  door, 

And  will  look  out  and  see  this  wondrous  sight, 
How  summer  is  come  back,  and  frost  is  o'er, . 


16        THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

And  all  the  air  warm  waxen  in  a  night." 
With  that  she  opened,  but  for  fear  she  cried, 
For  lo  !  two  Angels,  —  one  on  either  side. 

And  while  she  looked,  with  marvelling  measureless, 
The  Angels  stood  conversing  face  to  face. 

But  neither  spoke  to  her.     "  The  wilderness," 
One  Angel  said,  "  the  solitary  place, 

Shall  yet  be  glad  for  Him."     And  then  full  fain 

The  other  Angel  answered,  "  He  shall  reign." 

And  when  the  woman  heard,  in  wondering  wise, 
She  whispered,  "  They  are  speaking  of  my  Lord." 

And  straightway  swept  across  the  open  skies 
Multitudes  like  to  these.     They  took  the  word,- 

That  flock  of  Angels,  "  He  shall  come  again. 

My  Lord,  my  Lord  !  "  they  sang,  "  and  He  shall  reign  !  " 

Then  they,  drawn  up  into  the  blue  o'erhead, 
Right  happy,  shining  ones,  made  haste  to  flee ; 

And  those  before  her  one  to  other  said, 

"  Behold  he  stands  ancath  yon  almond-tree." 

This  when  the  woman  heard,  she  fain  had  gnzed. 

But  paused  for  reverence,  and  bowed  down  amazed. 


TnE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.        17 

After  she  looked,  for  this  her  dream  was  deep ; 

She  looked,  and  there  was  naught  beneath  the  tree ; 
Yet  did  her  love  and  longing  overleap 

The  fear  of  Angels,  awful  though  they  be. 
And  she  passed  out  between  the  blessed  things, 
And  brushed  her  mortal  weeds  against  their  wings. 

O,  all  the  happy  world  was  in  its  best, 

The  trees  were  covered  thick  with  buds  and  flowers. 
And  these  were  dropping  honey  ;  for  the  rest, 

Sweetly  the  birds  were  piping  in  their  bowers ; 
Across  the  grass  did  groups  of  Angels  go, 
And  Saints  in  pairs  were  walking  to  and  fro. 

Then  did  she  pass  toward  the  almond-tree. 
And  none  she  saw  beneath  it :  yet  each  Saint 

Upon  his  coming  meekly  bent  the  knee. 

And  all  their  glory  as  they  gazed  waxed  faint. 

And  then  a  lighting  Angel  iieared  the  place, 

And  folded  his  lair  wings  before  his  face. 

She  also  knelt,  and  spread  her  aged  hands 

As  feeling  for  the  sacred  human  feet ; 
She  said,  "  Mine  eyes  are  held,  but  if  He  stands 


18         THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

Anear,  I  will  not  let  Him  hence  retreat 
Except  He  bless  me."     Then,  O  sweet !  O  fair ! 
Some  words  were  spoken,  but  she  knew  not  where. 

She  knew  not  if  beneath  the  boughs  they  woke, 
Or  dropt  upon  her  from  the  realms  above  ; 

"  What  wilt  thou,  woman  ?  "  in  the  dream  He  spoke ; 
"  Thy  sorrow  moveth  Me,  thyself  I  love ; 

Long  have  I  counted  up  thy  mournful  years, 

Once  I  did  weep  to  wipe  away  thy  tears." 

She  said :  "  My  one  Redeemer,  only  blest, 

I  know  Thy  voice,  and  from  my  yearning  heart 

Draw  out  my  deep  desire,  my  great  request, 
My  prayer,  that  I  might  enter  where  Thou  art. 

Call  me,  0  call  from  this  world  troublesome, 

And  let  me  see  Thy  face."     He  answered,  "  Come." 

Here  is  the  ending  of  the  second  dream. 

It  is  a  frosty  morning,  keen  and  cold. 
Fast  locked  are  silent  mere  and  frozen  stream. 

And  snow  lies  sparkling  on  the  desert  wold ; 
With  savory  morning  meats  they  spread  the  board, 
But  Justice  Wilvermore  will  walk  abroad. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.        19 

"  Bring  me  my  cloak,"  quoth  he,  as  one  in  haste. 

"  Before  you  breakfast,  sir  ?  "  his  man  replies. 
"  Ay,"  quoth  he,  quickly,  and  he  will  not  taste 

Of  aught  before  him,  but  in  urgent  wise, 
As  he  would  fain  some  carking  care  allay, 
Across  the  frozen  field  he  takes  his  way. 

"  A  dream !  how  strange  that  it  should  move  me  so, 
'T  was  but  a  dream,"  quoth  Justice  Wilvermore : 

"  And  yet  I  cannot  peace  nor  pleasure  know, 
For  wrongs  I  have  not  heeded  heretofore ; 

Silver  and  gear  the  crone  shall  have  of  me, 

And  dwell  for  life  in  yonder  cottage  free. 

"  For  visions  of  the  night  are  fearful  things. 
Remorse  is  dread,  though  merely  in  a  dream ; 

I  will  not  subject  me  to  visitings 

Of  such  a  sort  again.     I  will  esteem 

My  peace  above  my  pride.     From  natures  rude 

A  little  gold  will  buy  me  gratitude. 

"  The  woman  shall  have  leave  to  gather  wood, 

As  much  as  she  may  need,  the  long  3-ear  round  ; 
She  shall,  I  say ;  moreover,  it  were  good 


20        THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

Yon  other  cottage  roofs  to  render  sound. 
Thus  to  my  soul  the  ancient  peace  restore, 
And  sleep  at  ease,"  quoth  Justice  Wilvermore. 

With  that  he  nears  the  door :  a  frosty  rime 
Is  branching  over  it,  and  drifts  are  deep 

Against  the  wall.     He  knocks,  and  there  is  time  — 
(For  none  doth  open),  —  time  to  list  the  sweep 

And  whistle  of  the  wind  along  the  mere. 

Through  beds  of  stiffened  reeds  and  rushes  sear. 

"  If  she  be  out,  I  have  my  pains  for  naught," 
He  saith,  and  knocks  again,  and  yet  once  more, 

But  to  his  ear  nor  step  nor  stir  is  brought ; 
And,  after  pause,  he  doth  unlatch  the  door 

And  enter.     No ;  she  is  not  out,  for  see, 

She  sits  asleep  'mid  frost-work  winterly. 

Asleep,  asleep  before  her  empty  grate. 

Asleep,  asleep,  albeit  the  landlord  call. 
"  What,  dame,"  he  saith,  and  comes  toward  her  straight, 

"  Asleep  so  early  !  "     But  whatc'er  befall. 
She  sleepeth ;  then  he  neai-s  her,  and  behold 
He  lays  a  hand  on  hers,  and  it  is  cold. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TKUE.        21 

Then  doth  the  Justice  to  his  home  return  ; 

From  that  day  forth  he  wears  a  sadder  brow ; 
His  hands  are  opened,  and  his  heart  doth  learn 

The  patience  of  the  poor.  He  made  a  vow 
And  keeps  it,  for  the  old  and  sick  have  shared 
His  gifts,  their  sordid  homes  he  hath  repaired. 

And  some  he  hath  made  happy,  but  for  him 
Is  happiness  no  more.     He  doth  repent, 

And  now  the  light  of  joy  is  waxen  dim, 
Are  all  his  hopes  toward  the  Highest  sent; 

He  looks  for  mercy,  and  he  waits  release 

Above,  for  this  world  doth  not  yield  him  peace. 

Night  after  night,  night  after  desolate  night, 

Day  after  day,  day  after  tedious  day, 
Stands  by  his  fire,  and  dulls  its  gleamy  light, 

Paceth  behind  or  meets  him  in  the  way ; 
Or  shares  the  path  by  hedge-row,  mere,  or  stream, 
The  visitor  that  doomed  him  in  his  dream. 


Thy  kingdom  come. 
I  heard  a  Seer  cry :  "  The  wilderness, 
The  solitary  place, 


22        THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

Shall  yet  be  glad  for  Him,  and  He  shall  bless 
(Thy  kingdom  come)  with  His  revealed  face 
The  forests ;  they  shall  drop  their  precious  gum, 
And  shed  for  Him  their  balm :  and  He  shall  yield 
The  grandeur  of  His  speech  to  charm  the  field. 

"  Then  all  the  soothed  winds  shall  drop  to  listen, 

(Thy  kingdom  come,) 
Comforted  waters  waxen  calm  shall  glisten 
With  bashful  tremblement  beneath  His  smile : 

And  Echo  ever  the  while 
Shall  take,  and  in  her  awful  joy  repeat. 
The  laughter  of  His  lips  —  (Thy  kingdom  come)  : 
And  hills  that  sit  apart  shall  be  no  longer  dumb ; 

No,  they  shall  shout  and  shout, 
Raining  their  lovely  loyalty  along  the  dewy  plain  ; 

And  valleys  round  about, 

"  And  all  the  well-contented  land,  made  sweet 

With  flowers  she  opened  at  His  feet. 
Shall  answer ;  shout  and  make  the  welkin  ring. 
And  tell  it  to  the  stars,  shout,  shout,  and  sing ; 
Her  cup  being  full  to  the  brim. 
Her  poverty  made  rich  with  Him, 


I 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.        23 

Her  yearning  satisfied  to  its  utmost  sum  — 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  Earth,  prepare  thy  song, 

It  shall  not  yet  be  long, 
Lift  up,  O  Earth,  for  He  shall  come  again, 
Thy  Lord ;  and  He  shall  reign,  and  He  shall  reign  — 

Thy  kingdom  come." 


I 


SONGS  ON  THE  VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 

INTRODUCTION. 

CHILD  AND   BOATMAN. 

«  "A    /r  AETIN,  I  wonder  who  makes  all  the  songs." 
iVi   "You  do,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  I  wonder  how  they  come." 
"  Well,  boy,  I  wonder  what  you  '11  wonder  next ! " 
"  But  somebody  must  make  them  V  " 

"  Sure  enough." 
"  Does  your  wife  know  ?  " 

"  She  never  said  she  did." 
"  You  told  me  that  she  knew  so  many  things." 
"  I  said  she  was  a  London  woman,  sir, 
And  a  fine  scholar,  but  I  never  said 
She  knew  about  the  songs." 

"I  wish  she  did." 
"  And  I  wish  no  such  thing ;  she  knows  enough, 
She  knows  too  much  already.     Look  you  now, 
This  vessel 's  off  the  stocks,  a  tidy  craft." 
"  A  schooner,  Martin  ?  " 


SONGS   OX   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  25 

"  No,  boy,  no  ;  a  brig, 
Only  she  's  schooner-rigged,  —  a  lovely  craft." 
"  Is  she  for  me  ?     O,  thank  you,  INIartin  dear. 
What  shall  I  call  her?" 

"  Well,  sir,  what  you  please." 
"  Then  write  on  her  '  The  Eagle.' " 

"  Bless  the  child  ! 
Eagle  !  why,  you  know  naught  of  eagles,  you. 
When  we  lay  off  the  coast,  up  Canada  way, 
And  chanced  to  be  ashore  when  twilight  fell, 
That  was  the  place  for  eagles  ;  bald  they  were, 
With  eyes  as  yellow  as  gold." 

"  O,  Martin,  dear, 
Tell  me  about  them." 

"  Tell !  there 's  naught  to  tell, 
Only  they  snored  o'  nights  and  frighted  us." 
"  Snored  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  tell  you,  snored ;  they  slept  upright 
In  the  great  oaks  by  scores ;  as  true  as  time, 
If  I  'd  had  aught  upon  my  mind  just  then, 
I  would  n't  have  walked  that  wood  for  unknown  gold ; 
It  was  most  awful.     When  the  moon  was  full, 
I  've  seen  them  fish  at  night,  in  the  middle  watch. 
When  she  got  low.     I  've  seen   them  plunge   like 
stones. 


26  SONGS    ON    THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS. 

And  come  up  fighting  with  a  fish  as  long, 
Ay,  longer  than  my  arm ;  and  they  would  sail  — 
When  they  had  struck  its  life  out  —  they  would  sail 
Over  the  deck,  and  show  their  fell,  fierce  eyes, 
And  croon  for  pleasure,  hug  the  prey,  and  speed 
Grand  as  a  frigate  on  the  wind." 

"  My  ship, 
She  must  be  called  '  The  Eagle '  after  these. 
And,  Martin,  ask  your  wife  about  the  songs 
When  you  go  in  at  dinner-time." 

"  Not  I." 


I 


THE    NIGHTINGALE    HEARD  BY  THE  UNSAT- 
ISFIED  HEART. 

When  in  a  May-day  hush 

Chanteth  the  Missel-thrush, 
The  harp  o'  the  heart  makes  answer  with  murmurous 
stirs ; 

When  Robin-redbreast  sings, 

We  think  on  budding  springs, 
And  Culvers  when  they  coo  ai'c  love's  remembrancers. 


SONGS    ON   THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS.  27 

But  thou  in  the  trance  of  light 

Stayest  the  feeding  night, 
And  Echo  makes  sweet  her  lips  with   the   utterance 
wise, 

And  casts  at  our  glad  feet, 

In  a  wisp  of  fancies  fleet, 
Life's  fair,  life's  unfulfilled,  impassioned  prophecies. 


Her  central  thought  full  well 

Thou  hast  the  wit  to  tell. 
To  take  the  sense  o'  the  dark  and  to  yield  it  so ; 

The  moral  of  moonlight 

To  set  in  a  cadence  bright, 
And  sing  our  loftiest  dream  that  we  thought  none  did 
know. 


I  have  no  nest  as  thou. 

Bird  on  the  blossoming  bough,  ■ 
Yet  over  thy  tongue  outfloweth  the  song  o'  my  soul. 

Chanting,  "  Forego  thy  strife. 

The  spirit  out-acts  the  life. 
But   MUCH  is  seldom  theii-s   who  can   perceive   the 

WHOLE. 


28  SONGS   ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS. 

"  Thou  drawest  a  perfect  lot 

All  thine,  but  holden  not, 
Lie  low,  at  the  feet  of  beauty  that  ever  shall  bide ; 

There  might  be  sorer  smart 

Than  thine,  far-seeing  heart, 
Whose  fate  is  still  to  yearn,  and  not  be  satisfied." 


SAND   MARTINS. 

I  PASSED  an  inland-cliff  precipitate ; 

From  tiny  caves  peeped  many  a  sooty  poll ; 
In  each  a  mother  martin  sat  elate, 

And  of  the  news  delivered  her  small  soul. 

Fantastic  chatter!  hasty,  glad,  and  gay, 
Whereof  the  meaning  was  not  ill  to  toll : 

"  Gossip,  how  wags  the  world  with  you  to-day  ?  " 
"  Gossip,  the  world  wags  well,  the  world  wags  well. 

And  heark'ning,  I  was  sure  their  little  ones 
Were  in  the  bird-talk,  and  discourse  was  made 

Concerning  hot  sea-bights  and  tropic  suns. 
For  a  clear  sultriness  the  tune  conveyed  ;  — 


SONGS    ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  29 

And  visions  of  the  sky  as  of  a  cup 

Hailing  down  light  on  pagan  Pharaoh's  sand, 

And  quivering  air-waves  trembling  up  and  up, 
And  blank  stone  faces  marvellously  bland. 

"  When  should  the  young  be  fledged  and  with  them  hie 
Where  costly  day  drops  down  in  crimson  light  ? 

(Fortunate  countries  of  the  fire-fly 

Swarm  with  blue  diamonds  all  the  sultry  night, 

"  And  the  immortal  moon  takes  turn  with  them.) 
When  should  they  pass  again  by  that  red  land, 

Where  Jovely  mirage  works  a  broidered  hem 
To  fringe  with  phantom-palms  a  robe  of  sand  ? 

"  When  should  they  dip  their  breasts  again  and  play 
In  slumberous  azure  pools,  clear  as  the  air, 

Where  rosy-winged  flamingoes  fish  all  day. 
Stalking  amid  the  lotos-blossom  fkir  ? 

"  Then,  over  podded  tamarinds  bear  their  flight, 
AVhile  cassias  blossom  in  the  zone  of  calms, 

And  so  betake  them  to  a  south  sea-bight. 
To  gossip  in  the  crowns  of  cocoa-palms 


30  SONGS    ON    THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS. 

"  Whose  roots  are  in  the  spray.     O,  haply  there 

Some  dawn,  white-winged  they  might  chance  to  find 

A  frigate,  standing  in  to  make  more  fair 
The  loneliness  unaltered  of  mankind. 

"  A  frigate  come  to  water :  nuts  would  fall, 

And  nimble  feet  would  climb  the  flower-flushed  strand, 

While  northern  talk  would  ring,  and  therewithal 
The  martins  would  desire  the  cool  north  land. 

"  And  all  would  be  as  it  had  been  before ; 

Again,  at  eve,  there  would  be  news  to  tell ; 
Who  passed  should  hear  them  chant  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

'  Gossip,  how  wags  the  world  ? '   '  Well,  gossip,  well.'  * 


A  POET  IN  HIS    YOUTH,  AND    THE   CUCKOO- 
BIRD. 

Once  upon  a  time,  I  lay 
Fast  asleep  at  dawn  of  day ; 
Windows  open  to  the  south, 
Fancy  pouting  her  sweet  mouth 
To  my  ear. 


SONGS   ON   THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS.  31 

She  turned  a  globe 
In  her  slender  hand,  her  robe 
Was  all  spangled ;  and  she  said, 
As  she  sat  at  my  bed's  head, 
"  Poet,  poet,  what !  asleep  ? 
Look  !  the  ray  runs  up  the  steep 
To  your  roof."     Then  in  the  golden 
Essence  of  romances  olden. 
Bathed  she  my  entranced  heart. 
And  she  gave  a  hand  to  me, 
Drew  me  onward  ;  "  Come  ! "  said  she; 
And  she  moved  with  me  apart, 
Down  the  lovely  vale  of  Leisure. 

Such  its  name  was,  I  heard  say, 
For  some  Fairies  trooped  that  way ; 
Common  people  of  the  place, 
Taking  their  accustomed  pleasure, 
(All  the  clocks  being  stopped,)  to  race 
Down  the  slope  on  palfreys  fleet. 
Bridle  bells  made  tinkling  sweet ; 
And  they  said,  "  What  signified 
Faring  home  till  eventide : 
There  were  pies  on  every  shelf, 


32  SONGS   ON   THE   VOICES  OF   BIRDS. 

And  tlie  bread  would  bake  itself." 
But  for  that  I  cared  not,  fed, 
As  it  were,  with  angels'  bread, 
Sweet  as  honey ;  yet  next  day 
AU  foredoomed  to  melt  away ; 
Gone  before  the  sun  waxed  hot. 
Melted  manna  that  was  not. 

Rock-doves'  poetry  of  plaint, 
Or  the  starling's  courtship  quaint ; 
Heart  made  much  of,  't  was  a  boon 
Won  from  silence,  and  too  soon 
Wasted  in  the  ample  air  : 
Building  rooks  far  distant  were. 

Scarce  at  all  would  speak  the  rills, 
And  I  saw  the  idle  hills, 
In  their  amber  hazes  deep, 
Fold  themselves  and  go  to  sleep, 
Though  it  was  not  yet  high  noon. 

Silence  ?     Rather  music  brought 
From  the  spheres  !     As  if  a  thought, 
Having  taken  wings,  did  fly 


SONGS    ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  33 

Through  the  reaches  of  the  sky. 
Silence  ?     No,  a  sumptuous  sigh 
That  had  found  embodiment, 
That  had  come  across  the  deep 
After  months  of  wintry  sleep, 
And  with  tender  heavings  went 
Floating  up  the  firmament. 

"  O,"  I  mourned,  half  slumbering  yet, 
"  'T  is  the  voice  of  my  regret,  — 
Mine  ! "  and  I  awoke.     Full  sweet 
Saffron  sunbeams  did  me  greet ; 
And  the  voice  it  spake  again, 
Dropped  from  yon  blue  cup  of  light 
Or  some  cloudlet  swan's-down  white 
On  my  soul,  that  drank  lull  foin 
The  sharp  joy  —  the  sweet  pain  — 
Of  its  clear,  right  innocent, 
Unreproved  discontent. 
How  it  came  —  where  It  went  — 
Who  can  tell  ?     The  open  blue 
Quivered  with  it,  and  I,  too, 
Trembled.     I  remembered  me 
Of  the  springs  that  used  to  be, 


34  SONGS    ON   THE    VOICES   OF   BIRttS. 

When  a  dimpled  white-haired  child, 
Shy  and  tender  and  half  wild, 
In  the  meadows  I  had  heard 
Some  way  off  the  talking  bird, 
And  had  felt  it  marvellous  sweet. 
For  it  laughed  :  it  did  me  greet, 
Calling  me :  yet,  hid  away 
In  the  woods,  it  would  not  play. 
No. 

And  all  the  world  about. 
While  a  man  will  work  or  sing. 
Or  a  child  pluck  flowers  of  spring, 
Thou  wilt  scatter  music  out, 
Rouse  him  with  thy  wandering  note. 
Changeful  fancies  set  afloat, 
Almost  tell  with  thy  clear  throat. 
But  not  quite,  the  wonder-rife. 
Most  sweet  riddle,  dark  and  dim, 
That  he  scarcheth  all  his  life, 
Searcheth  yet,  and  ne'er  expoundeth  ; 
And  so,  winnowing  of  thy  wings, 
Touch  and  trouble  his  heart's  strings, 
That  a  certain  music  soundeth 
In  that  wondrous  instrument, 


SONGS   ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  35 

With  a  trembling  upward  sent, 
That  is  reckoned  sweet  above 
By  the  Greatness  surnamed  Love. 

"  O,  I  hear  thee  in  the  blue  ; 
Would  that  I  might  wing  it  too  ! 
O  to  have  what  hope  hath  seen ! 
O  to  be  what  might  have  been ! 

"  O  to  set  my  life,  sweet  bird, 
To  a  tune  that  oft  I  heard 
When  I  used  to  stand  alone 
Listening  to  the  lovely  moan 
Of  the  swaying  pines  o'erhead, 
While,  a-gathering  of  bee-bread 
For  their  living,  murmured  round, 
As  the  pollen  dropped  to  ground. 
All  the  nations  from  the  hives ; 
And  the  little  brooding  wives 
On  each  nest,  brown  dusky  things, 
Sat  with  gold-<lust  on  their  wings. 
Then  beyond  (more  sweet  than  all) 
Talked  the  tumbling  waterfall ; 
And  there  were,  and  there  were  not 


36  SONGS   ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS. 

(As  might  fall,  and  form  anew 
Bell-hung  drops  of  honey-dew) 
Echoes  of —  I  know  not  what ; 
As  if  some  right-joyous  elf, 
While  about  his  own  affairs, 
Whistled  softly  otherwheres. 
Nay,  as  if  our  mother  dear, 
Wrapped  in  sun-warm  atmosphere, 
Laughed  a  little  to  herself. 
Laughed  a  little  as  she  rolled. 
Thinking  on  the  days  of  old. 

"  Ah  !  there  be  some  hearts,  I  wis, 
To  which  nothing  comes  amiss. 
Mine  was  one.     Much  secret  wealth 
I  was  heir  to :  and  by  stealth, 
When  the  moon  was  fully  grown. 
And  she  thought  herself  alone, 
I  have  heard  her,  ay,  right  well, 
Shoot  a  silver  message  down 
To  tlie  unseen  sentinel 
Of  a  still,  snow-thatched  town. 

"  Once,  awhile  ago,  I  peered 

In  the  nest  where  Spring  was  reared. 


SONGS   ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  37 

There  she,  quivering  her  fair  wings, 
Flattered  March  with  chirrupings  ; 
And  they  fed  her ;  nights  and  days, 
Fed  her  month  with  much  sweet  food, 
And  her  heart  with  love  and  praise, 
Till  the  wild  thing  rose  and  flew 
Over  woods  and  water-springs. 
Shaking  off  the  morning  dew 
In  a  rainbow  fi-om  her  wings. 

"  Once  (1  will  to  you  confide 
More), —  O,  once  in  forest  wide, 
I,  benighted,  overheard 
Marvellous  mild  echoes  stirred, 
And  a  calling  half  defined, 
And  an  answering  from  afar ; 
Somewhat  talked  with  a  star, 
And  the  talk  was  of  mankind. 

" '  Cuckoo,  cuckoo ! ' 
Float  anear  in  upper  blue  : 
Art  thou  yet  a  prophet  true  ? 
Wilt  thou  say,  '  And  having  seen 
Things  that  be,  and  have  not  been. 


38  SONGS   ON    THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS. 

Thou  art  free  o'  the  world,  for  naught 
Can  despoil  thee  of  thy  thought '  ? 
Nay,  but  make  me  music  yet, 
Bird,  as  deep  as  my  regret ; 
For  a  certain  hope  hath  set, 
Like  a  star,  and  left  me  heir 
To  a  crying  for  its  light, 
An  aspiring  infinite, 
And  a  beautiful  despair  ! 

"  Ah !  no  more,  no  more,  no  more 
I  shall  lie  at  thy  shut  door, 
Mine  ideal,  my  desired, 
Dreaming  thou  wilt  open  it, 
And  step  out,  thou  most  admired, 
By  my  side  to  fare,  or  sit. 
Quenching  hunger  and  all  drouth 
With  the  wit  of  thy  fair  mouth, 
Showing  me  the  wished  prize. 
In  the  calm  of  thy  dove's  eyes, 
Teaching  me  the  wonder-rife 
Majesties  of  human  life. 
All  its  fairest  possible  sura. 
And  the  grace  of  its  to  come. 


SOXGS    ON    THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS.  39 

"  What  a  difiereiice  !     Why  of  late 

All  sweet  music  used  to  say, 

'  She  will  come,  and  with  thee  stay 

To-morrow,  man,  if  not  to-day.' 

Now  it  murmurs,  '  Wait,  wait,  wait ! ' " 


A  RAVEN  IN  A   WHITE   CHINE. 

I  SAW,  when  I  looked  up,  on  either  hand, 
A  pale  high  chalk-cliff,  reared  aloft  in  white ; 

A  narrowing  rent  soon  closed  toward  the  land,  — 
Toward  the  sea,  an  open  yawning  bight. 

The  polished  tide,  with  scarce  a  hint  of  blue, 
Washed  in  the  bight ;  above  with  angry  moan 

A  raven,  that  was  robbed,  sat  up  in  view, 
Croaking  and  crying  on  a  ledge  alone. 

"  Stand  on  thy  nest,  spread  out  thy  fateful  wings, 
With  sullen  hungry  love  bemoan  thy  brood. 

For  boys  have  wrung  their  necks,  those  imp-like  things, 
Whose  beaks  dripped  crimson  daily  at  their  food. 


40  SONGS   ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS. 

"  Cry,  thou  black  prophetess !  cry,  and  despair ; 

None  love  thee,  none !     Their  father  was  thy  foe, 
Whose  father  in  his  youth  did  know  thy  lair, 

And  steal  thy  little  demons  long  ago. 

"  Thou  madest  many  childless  for  their  sake, 
And  picked  out  many  eyes  that  loved  the  light. 

Cry,  thou  black  prophetess  !  sit  up,  awake, 

Forebode ;  and  ban  them  through  the  desolate  night." 

Lo  !  while  I  spake  it,  with  a  crimson  hue 
The  dipping  sun  endowed  that  silver  flood. 

And  all  the  cliffs  flushed  red,  and  up  she  flew. 
The  bird,  as  mad  to  bathe  in  airy  blood. 

"  Nay,  thou  mayst  cry,  the  omen  is  not  thine, 
Thou  aged  priestess  of  fell  doom,  and  fate. 

It  is  not  blood :  thy  gods  are  making  wine, 
They  spilt  the  must  outside  their  city  gate, 

"  And  stained  their  azure  pavement  with  the  lees : 
Thoy  will  not  listen  though  thou  cry  aloud. 

Old  Chance,  thy  dame,  sits  mumbling  at  her  ease. 
Nor  hears  ;  the  fair  hag.  Luck,  is  in  her  shroud. 


SONGS   ON   THE    VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  41 

"  They  heed  not,  they  withdraw  the  sky-hung  sign : 
Thou  hast  no  charm  against  the  flivorite  race  ; 

Thy  gods  pour  out  for  it,  not  blood,  but  wine  : 
There  is  no  justice  in  their  dwelling-place  ! 

"  Safe  in  their  ftither's  house  the  boys  shall  rest, 
Though  thy  fell  brood  doth  stark  and  silent  lie ; 

Their  unborn  sons  may  yet  despoil  thy  nest : 
Cry,  thou  black  prophetess  !  lift  up  !  cry,  cry ! " 


THE  WARBLING  OF  BLACKBIRDS. 

When  I  hear  the  waters  fi-etting. 
When  I  see  the  chestnut  letting 
All  her  lovely  blossom  falter  down,  I  think,  "  Alas  the 
day ! " 
Once,  with  magical  sweet  singing. 
Blackbirds  set  the  woodland  ringing, 
That  awakes  no  more  while  April  hours  wear  them- 
selves away. 

In  our  hearts  fair  hope  lay  smiling. 
Sweet  as  air,  and  all  beguiling ; 


42  SOXGS    ON    THE    VOICES    OF    BIRDS. 

And  there  hung  a  mist  of  bluebells  on  the  slope  and 
down  the  dell ; 
And  we  talked  of  joy  and  splendor 
That  the  years  unborn  would  render, 
And  the  blackbirds  helped  us  with  the  story,  for  they 
knew  it  well. 

Piping,  fluting,  "  Bees  are  humming, 
April 's  here,  and  summer 's  coming ; 
Don't  forget  us  when  you  walk,  a  man  with  men,  in 
pride  and  joy ; 
Think  on  us  in  alleys  shady. 
When  you  step  a  graceful  lady ; 
For  no  fairer  day  have  we  to  hope  for,  little  girl  and 
boy. 

"  Laugh  and  play,  O  lisping  waters. 
Lull  our  downy  sons  and  daughters ; 
Come,  O  wind,  and  rock  their  leafy  cradle  in  thy  wan- 
derings coy ; 
When  they  wake,  we  '11  end  the  measure 
With  a  wild  sweet  cry  of  pleasure. 
And  a  '  Hey  down  deny,  let 's  be  merry  !  little  girl  and 
boy ! ' " 


I 


SONGS   ON   THE    VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  43 


SEA-MEWS   IN  WINTER  TIIVIE. 

I  WALKED  beside  a  dark  gray  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  world,  how  cold  thou  art ! 

Thou  poor  white  world,  I  pity  thee, 
For  joy  and  warmth  from  thee  depart. 

"  Yon  rising  wave  licks  off  the  snow, 
Winds  on  the  crag  each  other  chase, 

In  little  powdery  whirls  they  blow 
The  misty  fragments  down  its  face. 

"  The  sea  is  cold,  and  dark  its  rim. 
Winter  sits  cowering  on  the  wold. 

And  I,  beside  this  watery  brim. 
Am  also  lonely,  also  cold." 

I  spoke,  and  drew  toward  a  rock. 

Where  many  mews  made  twittering  sweet ; 
Their  wings  uprcared,  the  clustering  flock 

Did  pat  the  sea-grass  with  their  feet. 


44  SONGS    ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS. 

A  rock  but  half  submerged,  the  sea 
Ran  up  and  washed  it  while  they  fed ; 

Their  fond  and  foolish  ecstasy 
A  wondering  in  my  fancy  bred. 

Joy  companied  with  every  cry, 

Joy  in  their  food,  in  that  keen  wind, 

That  heaving  sea,  that  shaded  sky, 
And  in  themselves,  and  in  their  kind. 

The  phantoms  of  the  deep  at  play ! 

What  idless  graced  the  twittering  things  ; 
Luxurious  paddlings  in  the  spray. 

And  delicate  lifting  up  of  wings. 

Then  all  at  once  a  flight,  and  fixst 
The  lovely  crowd  flew  out  to  sea ; 

If  mine  own  life  had  been  recast, 

Earth  had  not  looked  more  changed  to  me. 

•'  Where  is  the  cold  ?     Yon  clouded  skies 
Have  only  dropped  their  curtains  low 

To  shade  the  old  mother  whore  she  lies, 
Sleeping  a  little,  'neath  the  snow. 


SONGS    ON   THE   VOICES   OF   BIRDS.  45 

"  The  cold  is  not  in  crag,  nor  scar, 

Not  in  the  snows  that  lap  the  lea, 
Not  in  yon  wings  that  beat  afar. 

Delighting,  on  the  crested  sea  ; 

"  No,  nor  in  yon  exultant  wind 

That  shakes  the  oak  and  bends  the  pine. 

Look  near,  look  in,  and  thou  shalt  find 
No  sense  of  cold,  fond  fool,  but  thine  ! " 

With  that  I  felt  the  gloom  depart. 
And  thoughts  within  me  did  unfold. 

Whose  sunshine  warmed  me  to  the  heart : 
I  walked  in  joy,  and  was  not  cold. 


LAURANCE, 


HE  knew  she  did  not  love  him ;  but  so  long 
As  rivals  were  unknown  to  him,  he  dwelt 
At  ease,  and  did  not  find  his  love  a  pain. 

He  had  much  deference  in  his  nature,  need 
To  honor,  —  it  became  him  :  he  was  frank, 
Fresh,  hardy,  of  a  joyous  mind,  and  strong,  — 
Looked  all  things  straight  in  the  face.     So  when  she 

came 
Before  him  first,  he  looked  at  her,  and  looked 
No  more,  but  colored  to  his  healthful  brow, 
And  wished  himself  a  better  man,  and  thought 
On  certain  things,  and  wished  they  were  undone, 
Because  her  girlish  innocence,  the  grace 
Of  her  unblemished  pureness,  wrought  in  him 
A  longing  and  aspiring,  and  a  shame 
To  think  how  wicked  was  the  world,  —  that  world 
Which  he  must  walk  in,  —  while  from  her  (and  such 


LAURANCE.  47 

As  she  was)  it  was  hidden  ;  there  was  made 
A  clean  path,  and  the  girl  moved  on  like  one 
In  some  enchanted  ring. 

In  iis  young  heart 
She  reigned,  with  all  the  beauties  that  she  had, 
And  all  the  virtues  that  he  rightly  took 
For  granted  ;  there  he  set  her  with  her  crown, 
And  at  her  first  enthronement  he  turned  out 
Much  that  was  best  away,  for  unaware 
His  thoughts  grew  noble.     She  was  always  there 
And  knew  it  not,  and  he  grew  like  to  her, 
And  like  to  what  he  thought  her. 

Now  he  dwelt 
With  kin  that  loved  him  well,  —  two  fine  old  folk, 
A  rich,  right  honest  yeoman,  and  bis  dame,  — 
Their  only  grandson  he,  their  pride,  their  heir. 

To  these  one  daughter  had  been  born,  one  child, 
And  as  she  grew  to  woman,  "  Look,"  they  said, 
"  She  must  not  leave  us  ;  let  us  build  a  wing. 
With  cheerful  rooms  and  wide,  to  our  old  grange  ; 
There  may  she  dw2ll,  with  her  good  man,  and  all 


48  LAURANCE. 

God  sends  them."     Then  the  girl  in  her  first  youth 
Married  a  curate,  —  handsome,  poor  in  purse. 
Of  gentle  blood  and  manners,  and  he  lived 
Under  her  father's  roof  as  they  had  planned. 

Full  soon,  for  happy  years  are  short,  they  filled 
The  house  with  children  ;  four  were  born  to  them. 
Then  came  a  sickly  season  ;  fever  spread 
Among  the  poor.     The  curate,  never  slack 
In  duty,  praying  by  the  sick,  or,  worse. 
Burying  the  dead,  when  all  the  air  was  clogged 
With  poisonous  mist,  was  stricken  ;  long  he  lay 
Sick,  almost  to  the  death,  and  when  his  head 
He  lifted  from  the  pillow,  there  was  left 
One  only  of  that  pretty  flock :  his  girls. 
His  three,  were  cold  beneath  the  sod ;  his  boy. 
Their  eldest  born,  remained. 

The  drooping  wife 
Bore  her  great  sorrow  in  such  quiet  wise, 
That  first  they  marvelled  at  her,  then  they  tried 
To  rouse  her,  showing  her  their  bitter  grief, 
Lamenting,  and  not  sparing  ;  but  she  sighed, 
"  Let  me  alone,  it  will  not  be  for  long." 
Then  did  her  mother  tremble,  murmuring  out. 


LAURAXCE.  49 

"  Dear  child,  the  best  of  comfort  -will  be  soon, 
O,  when  you  see  this  other  little  face, 
You  -will,  please  God,  be  comforted." 

She  said, 
"  I  shall  not  live  to  see  it  "  ;  but  she  did,  — 
A  little  sickly  face,  a  wan,  thin  face. 
Then  she  grew  eager,  and  her  eyes  were  bright 
When  she  would  plead  with  them,  "  Take  me  away, 
Let  me  go  south  ;  it  is  the  bitter  blast 
That  chills  my  tender  babe  ;  she  cannot  thrive 
Under  the  desolate,  dull,  mournful  cloud." 
Then  all  they  journeyed  south  together,  mute 
With  past  and  coming  sorrow,  till  the  sun, 
In  gardens  edging  the  blue  tideless  main, 
AVarmed  them  and  calmed  the  aching  at  their  hearts. 
And  all  went  better  for  a  while  ;  but  not 
For  long.     They  sitting  by  the  orange  trees 
Once  I'ested,  and  the  wife  was  very  still : 
A  woman  with  narcissus  flowers  heaped  up 
Let  down  her  basket  from  her  head,  but  paused 
With  pitjnng  gesture,  and  drew  near  and  stooped. 
Taking  a  white  wild  face  upon  her  breast. 
The  little  babe  on  its  poor  mother's  knees. 
None  marking  it,  none  knowing  else,  had  died. 


50  LAURANCE. 

The  fading  mother  could  not  stay  behind, 
Her  heart  was  broken  ;  but  it  awed  them  most 
To  feel  they  must  not,  dared  not,  pray  for  life, 
Seeing  she  longed  to  go,  and  went  so  gladly. 

After,  these  three,  who  loved  each  other  well, 
Brought  their  one  child  away,  and  they  were  best 
Together  in  the  wide  old  grange.     Full  oft 
The  father  with  the  mother  talked  of  her, . 
Their  daughter,  but  the  husband  nevermore  ; 
He  looked  for  solace  in  his  work,  and  gave 
His  mind  to  teach  his  boy.     And  time  went  on, 
Until  the  grandsire  prayed  those  other  two, 
"  Now  part  with  him ;  it  must  be  ;  for  his  good : 
He  rules  and  knows  it ;  choose  for  him  a  school, 
Let  him  have  all  the  advantages,  and  all 
Good  training  that  should  make  a  gentleman." 

With  that  they  parted  from  their  boy,  and  lived 

Longing  between  his  holidays,  and  time 

Sped  ;  he  grew  on  till  he  had  eighteen  years. 

His  father  loved  him,  wished  to  make  of  him 

Another  parson  •,  but  the  farmer's  wife 

Murmured  at  that  —  "  No,  no,  they  learned  bad  ways, 


LAURANGE.  51 

They  ran  in  debt  at  college  ;  she  had  heard 

That  many  rued  the  day  they  sent  their  boys 

To  college  "  :  and  between  the  two  broke  in 

His  grandsire,  "  Find  a  sober,  honest  man, 

A  scholar,  for  our  lad  should  see  the  world 

While  he  is  young,  that  he  may  marry  young. 

He  will  not  settle  and  be  satisfied 

Till  he  has  run  about  the  world  awhile. 

Good  lack,  I  longed  to  travel  in  my  youth. 

And  had  no  chance  to  do  it.     Send  him  off, 

A  sober  man  being  found  to  trust  him  with,  — 

One  with  the  fear  of  God  before  his  eyes." 

And  he  prevailed  ;  the  careful  father  chose 

A  tutor,  young,  the  worthy  matron  thought,  — 

In  truth,  not  ten  years  older  than  her  boy, 

And  glad  as  he  to  range,  and  keen  for  snows, 

Desert,  and  ocean.     And  they  made  strange  choice 

Of  where  to  go,  left  the  sweet  day  behind, 

And  pushed  up  north  in  whaling  ships,  to  feel 

What  cold  was,  see  the  blowing  whale  come  up. 

And  Arctic  creatures,  while  a  scarlet  sun 

Went  round  and  round,  crowd  on  the  clear  blue  berg. 

Then  did  the  trappers  have  them  ;  and  they  heard 


52  LAURANCE. 

Nightly  the  whistling  calls  of  forest-men 

That  mocked  the  forest  wonners  ;  and  they  saw 

Over  the  open,  raging  up  like  doom, 

The  dangerous  dust-cloud,  that  was  full  of  eyes  — 

The  bisons.     So  were  three  years  gone  like  one  ; 

And  the  old  cities  drew  them  for  a  while, 

Great  mothers,  by  the  Tiber  and  the  Seine  ; 

They  have  hid  many  sons  hard  by  their  seats, 

But  all  the  air  is  stirring  with  them  still, 

The  waters  murmur  of  them,  skies  at  eve 

Are  stained  with  their  rich  blood,  and  every  sound 

Means  men. 

At  last,  the  fourth  year  running  out. 
The  youth  came  home.     And  all  the  cheerful  house 
Was  decked  in  fresher  colors,  and  the  dame 
Was  full  of  joy.     But  in  the  father's  heart 
Abode  a  painful  doubt.     "  It  is  not  well ; 
He  cannot  spend  his  life  with  dog  and  gun. 
I  do  not  care  that  my  one  son  should  sleep 
Merely  for  keeping  him  in  breath,  and  wake 
Only  to  ride  to  cover." 

Not  the  less 
The  grandsire  pondered.     "  Ay,  the  boy  must  WORK 
Or  SPEND  ;  and  I  must  let  him  spend  ;  just  stay 


LAURANCE.  53 

Awhile  with  us,  and  then  from  time  to  time 

Have  leave  to  be  away  with  those  fine  folk 

With  whom,  these  many  years,  at  school,  and  now. 

During  liis  sojourn  in  the  foreign  towns, 

He  has  been  made  familiar."     Thus  a  month 

Went  by.     They  liked  the  stirring  ways  of  youth. 

The  quick  elastic  step,  and  joyous  mind, 

Ever  expectant  of  it  knew  not  what. 

But  something  higher  than  has  e'er  been  born 

Of  easy  slumber  and  sweet  competence. 

And  as  for  him,  the  while  they  thought  and  thought, 

A  comfortable  instinct  let  him  know 

How  they  had  waited  for  him  to  complete 

And  give  a  meaning  to  their  lives  ;  and  still 

At  home,  but  with  a  sense  of  newness  there. 

And  frank  and  fresh  as  in  the  school-boy  days, 

He  oft  —  Invading  of  his  father's  haunts, 

The  study  where  he  passed  the  silent  morn  — 

AYould  sit,  devouring  with  a  greedy  joy 

The  piled-up  books,  uncut  as  yet ;  or  wake 

To  guide  with  him  by  night  the  tube,  and  search. 

Ay,  think  to  find  new  stars  ;  then,  risen  betimes. 

Would  ride  about  the  farm,  and  list  the  talk 

Of  his  hale  grandsire. 


54  LAURANCE. 

But  a  day  came  round, 
When,  after  peering  in  his  mother's  room, 
Shaded  and  shuttered  from  the  hght,  he  oped 
A  door,  and  found  the  rosy  grandmother 
Ensconced  and  happy  in  her  special  pride, 
Her  store-room.     She  was  corking  syrups  rare, 
And  fruits  all  sparkling  in  a  crystal  coat. 
Here,  after  choice  of  certain  cates  well  known, 
He,  sitting  on  her  bacon-chest  at  ease, 
Sang  as  he  watched  her,  till,  right  suddenly, 
As  if  a  new  thought  came,  "  Goody,"  quoth  he, 
"  What,  think  you,  do  they  want  to  do  with  me  ? 
What  have  they  planned  for  me  that  I  should  do  ?  ' 

"  Do,  laddie  !  "  quoth  she,  faltering,  half  in  tears  ; 
"  Are  you  not  happy  witli  us  ?  not  content  ? 
Why  would  ye  go  away  ?     There  is  no  need 
That  ye  should  uo  at  all.     O,  bide  at  home. 
Have  we  not  plenty  ?  " 

"  Even  so,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  did  not  wish  to  go." 

"  Nay,  then,"  quoth  she, 
"  Be  idle  ;  let  me  see  your  blessed  face. 
What,  is  the  liorse  your  father  chose  for  you 


LAURANCE.  55 

Not  to  your  mind  ?     He  is  ?     Well,  well,  remain  ; 
Do  as  you  will,  so  you  but  do  it  here. 
You  shall  not  want  for  money." 

But,  his  arms 
Folding,  he  sat  and  twisted  up  his  mouth 
With  comical  discomfiture. 

"  What,  then," 
She  sighed,  "  what  is  it,  child,  that  you  would  like  ?  " 
"  Why,"  said  he,  "  farming." 

And  she  looked  at  him, 
Fond,  foolish  woman  that  she  was,  to  find 
Some  fitness  in  the  worker  for  the  work. 
And  she  found  none.     A  certain  grace  there  was 
Of  movement,  and  a  beauty  in  the  face, 
Sun-browned  and  healthful  beauty,  that  had  come 
From  his  grave  father ;  and  she  thought,  "  Good  lack, 
A  farmer  !  he  is  fitter  for  a  duke. 
He  walks  —  why,  how  he  walks !  if  I  should  meet 
One  like  him,  whom  I  knew  not,  I  should  ask. 
And  who  may  that  be  ?  "     So  the  foolish  thought 
Found  words.     Quoth  she,  half  laughing,  half  ashamed, 
"  We  planned  to  make  of  you  —  a  gentleman." 
And,  with  engaging  sweet  audacity,  — 
She  thought  it  nothing  less,  —  he,  looking  up, 


56  LAURANCE. 

With  a  smile  in  his  blue  eyes,  replied  to  her, 

"  And  have  n't  you  done  it  ?  "    Quoth  she,  lovingly, 

"  I  think  we  have,  laddie ;  I  think  we  have." 

"  Then,"  quoth  he,  "  I  may  do  what  best  I  like ; 

It  makes  no  matter.     Goody,  you  were  wise 

To  help  me  in  it,  and  to  let  me  farm  ; 

I  think  of  getting  into  mischief  else  !  " 

"  No  !  do  ye,  laddie  ?  "  quoth  the  dame,  and  laughed. 

"  But  ask  my  grandfather,"  the  youth  went  on, 

"  To  let  me  have  the  farm  he  bought  last  year, 

The  little  one,  to  manage.     I  like  land  ; 

I  want  some."     And  she,  womanlike,  gave  way, 

Convinced ;  and  promised,  and  made  good  her  word. 

And  that  same  night  upon  the  matter  spoke, 

In  presence  of  the  father  and  the  son. 

"  Roger,"  quoth  she,  "  our  Laurance  wants  to  farm ; 

"  I  think  he  might  do  worse."     The  father  sat 

Mute,  but  right  glad.     The  grandson,  breaking  in, 

Set  all  his  wish  and  his  ambition  forth ; 

But  cunningly  the  old  man  hid  his  joy. 

And  made  conditions  with  a  faint  demur. 

Then,  pausing,  "  Let  your  father  speak,"  quoth  he ; 


LAURAXCE.  57 

"  I  am  content  if  he  is."     At  his  word 

The  parson  took  him ;  ay,  and,  parson  like. 

Put  a  religious  meaning  in  the  work, 

Man's  earliest  work,  and  wished  his  son  God  speed. 


n. 


Thus  all  were  satisfied,  and,  day  by  day, 

For  two  sweet  years  a  happy  course  was  theirs ; 

Happy,  but  yet  the  fortunate,  the  young 

Loved,  and  much  cared-for,  entered  on  his  sti'ife,  — 

A  stirring  of  the  heart,  a  quickening  keen 

Of  sight  and  hearing  to  the  delicate 

Beauty  and  music  of  an  altered  world,  — 

Began  to  walk  in  that  mysterious  light 

Which  doth  reveal  and  yet  transform ;  which  gives 

Destiny,  sorrow,  youth,  and  death,  and  life, 

Intenser  meaning ;  in  discjuieting 

Lifts  up ;  a  shining  light :  men  call  it  Love. 

Fair,  modest  eyes  had  she,  the  girl  he  loved  ; 
A  silent  creature,  thoughtful,  grave,  sincere. 
She  never  turned  from  him  with  sweet  caprice, 


58  LAURANCE. 

Nor  changing  moved  his  soul  to  troublous  hope, 
Nor  dropped  for  him  her  heavy  lashes  low, 
But  excellent  in  youthful  grace  came  up ; 
And,  ere  his  words  were  ready,  passing  on, 
Had  left  him  all  a-tremble ;  yet  made  sure 
That  by  her  own  true  will,  and  fixed  intent. 
She  held  him  thus  remote.     Therefore,  albeit 
He  knew  she  did  not  love  him,  yet  so  long 
As  of  a  rival  unaware,  he  dwelt 
All  in  the  present,  without  fear,  or  hope. 
Enthralled  and  whelmed  in  the  deep  sea  of  love, 
And  could  not  get  his  head  above  its  wave 
To  search  the  far  horizon,  or  to  mark 
Whereto  it  drifted  him. 

So  long,  so  long ; 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  came  the  ruthless  fate. 
Showed  him  a  bitter  truth,  and  brought  hiiik  bale 
All  in  the  tolling  out  of  noon. 

'T  was  thus : 
Snow-time  was  come ;  it  had  been  snowing  hard  ; 
Across  the  churcliyard  patli  he  walked  ;  the  clock 
Began  to  strike,  and,  as  he  passed  the  porch, 
Half  turning,  througli  a  sense;  that  came  to  him 
As  of  some  presence  in  it,  he  beheld 


LAURAXCE.  59 

His  love,  and  she  had  come  for  shelter  there ; 
And  all  her  face  was  fair  with  rosy  bloom, 
The  blush  of  happiness ;  and  one  held  up 
Her  ungloved  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  stooped 
Toward  it,  sitting  by  her.     O,  her  eyes 
Were  full  of  peace  and  tender  light :  they  looked 
One  moment  in  the  ungraced  lover's  face 
While  he  was  passing  in  the  snow ;  and  he 
Received  the  story,  while  he  raised  his  hat 
Retiring.     Then  the  clock  left  off  to  strike. 
And  that  was  all.     It  snowed,  and  he  walked  on ; 
And  in  a  certain  way  he  marked  the  snow. 
And  walked,  and  came  upon  the  open  heath ; 
And  in  a  certain  way  he  marked  the  cold, 
And  walked  as  one  that  had  no  starting-place 
Might  walk,  but  not  to  any  certain  goal. 

And  he  strode  on  toward  a  hollow  part, 
Where  from  the  hillside  gravel  had  been  dug, 
And  he  was  conscious  of  a  cry,  and  went, 
Dulled  in  his  sense,  as  though  he  heard  it  not ; 
Till  a  small  farmhouse  drudge,  a  half-grown  girl, 
Rose  from  the  shelter  of  a  drift  that  lay 
Against  the  bushes,  crying,  "  God  !  O  God, 
O  my  good  God,  He  sends  us  help  at  last." 


60  LAURANCE. 

Then,  looking  hard  upon  her,  came  to  him 
The  power  to  feel  and  to  jierceive.     Her  teeth 
Chattered,  and  all  her  limbs  with  shuddering  failed, 
And  in  her  threadbare  shawl  was  wrajiped  a  child 
That  looked  on  him  with  wondering,  wistful  eyes. 

"  I  thought  to  freeze,"  the  girl  broke  out  with  tears ; 
"  Kind  sir,  kind  sir,"  and  she  held  out  the  child, 
As  praying  him  to  take  it ;  and  he  did  ; 
And  gave  to  her  the  shawl,  and  swathed  his  charge 
In  the  foldings  of  his  plaid  ;  and  when  it  thrust 
Its  small  round  face  against  his  breast,  and  felt 
With  small  red  hands  for  warmth,  unbearable 
Pains  of  great  pity  rent  his  straitened  heart, 
For  the  poor  upland  dwellers  had  been  out 
Since  morning  dawn,  at  early  milking-time. 
Wandering  and  stumbling  in  the  drift.     And  now, 
Lamed  with  a  fall,  half  crippled  by  the  cold. 
Hardly  prevailed  his  arm  to  drag  her  on, 
That  ill-clad  child,  who  yet  the  younger  child 
Had  motherly  cared  to  shield.     So  toiling  through 
The  great  white  storm  coming,  and  coming  yet, 
And  coming  till  the  world  confounded  sat 
With  all  her  fair  familiar  features  gone, 


I.AUKANCE.  61 

The  mountains  muffled  in  an  eddying  swirl, 

He  led  or  bore  them,  and  the  little  one 

Peered  from  her  shelter,  pleased  ;  but  oft  would  mourn 

The  elder,  "  They  will  beat  me  :  O  my  can, 

I  left  my  can  of  milk  upon  the  moor." 

And  he  compared  her  ti-ouble  with  his  own, 

And  had  no  heart  to  speak.     And  yet  't  was  keen ; 

It  filled  her  to  the  putting  down  of  pain 

And  hunger,  —  what  could  his  do  more  ? 

He  brought 
The  children  to  their  home,  and  suddenly 
Regained  himself,  and,  wondering  at  himself. 
That  he  had  borne,  and  yet  been  dumb  so  long, 
The  weary  wailing  of  the  girl,  he  paid 
Money  to  buy  her  pardon  ;  heard  them  say, 
"  Peace,  we  have  feared  for  you  ;  forget  the  milk. 
It  is  no  matter  ! "  and  went  forth  again 
And  waded  in  the  snow,  and  quietly 
Considered  in  his  patience  what  to  do 
With  all  the  dull  remainder  of  his  days. 

With  dusk  he  was  at  home,  and  felt  it  good 
To  hear  his  kindred  talking,  for  it  broke 
A  mocking  endless  echo  in  his  soul, 


62  LAURAXCE. 

"  It  is  no  matter  !  "  and  lae  could  not  choose 

But  mutter,  though  the  weariness  o'ercame 

His  spirit,  "  Peace,  it  is  no  matter ;  peace, 

It  is  no  matter ! "  For  he  felt  that  all 

Was  as  it  had  been,  and  his  father's  heart 

Was  easy,  knowing  not  how  that  same  day 

Hope  with  her  tender  colors  and  delight 

(He  should  not  care  to  have  him  know)  were  dead  ; 

Yea,  to  all  these,  his  nearest  and  most  dear. 

It  was  no  matter.     And  he  heard  them  talk 

Of  timber  felled,  of  certain  fruitful  fields, 

And  profitable  markets. 

All  for  him 
Their  plans,  and  yet  the  echoes  swarmed  and  swam 
About  his  head,  whenever  there  was  pause  ; 
"  It  is  no  matter  !  "    And  his  greater  self 
Arose  in  him  and  fought.     "  It  matters  much, 
It  matters  all  to  these,  that  not  to-day 
Nor  ever  they  should  know  it.     I  will  hide 
The  wound  ;  ay,  hide  it  with  a  sleepless  care. 
What !  shall  I  make  these  three  to  drink  of  rue, 
Because  my  cup  is  bitter  ?  "     And  he  thrust 
Himself  in  thought  away,  and  made  his  ears 
Hearken,  and  caused  his  voice,  that  yet  did  seem 


LAURANCE.  63 

Another,  to  make  answer,  when  they  spoke, 
As  there  had  been  no  snow-storm,  and  no  porch, 
And  no  despair. 

So  this  went  on  awhile 
Until  the  snow  had  melted  from  the  wold, 
And  he,  one  noonday,  wandering  up  a  lane. 
Met  on  a  turn  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 
Then,  even  to  trembling  he  was  moved ;  his  speech 
Faltered  ;  but,  when  the  common  kindly  words 
Of  greeting  were  all  said,  and  she  passed  on, 
He  could  not  bear  her  sweetness  and  his  pain. 
"  Muriel ! "  he  cried  ;  and  when  she  heard  her  name, 
She  turned.     "You  know  I  love  you,"  he  broke  out. 
She  answered,  "  Yes,"  and  sighed. 

"  O,  pardon  me, 
Pardon  me,"  quoth  the  lover  ;  "  let  me  rest 
In  certainty,  and  hear  it  from  your  mouth  : 
Is  he  with  whom  I  saw  you  once  of  late 
To  call  you  wife  ?  "     "  I  hope  so,"  she  replied  ; 
And  over  all  her  face  the  rose-bloom  came. 
As,  thinking  on  that  other,  unaware 
Her  eyes  waxed  tender.     When  he  looked  on  her, 
Standing  to  answer  him,  with  lovely  shame, 
Submiss,  and  yet  not  his,  a  passionate. 


64  LAURANCE. 

A  quickened  sense  of  his  great  impotence 
To  drive  away  the  doom  got  hold  on  him ; 
He  set  his  teeth  to  force  the  unbearable 
Misery  back ;  his  wide-awakened  eyes 
Flashed  as  with  flame. 

And  she,  all  overawed 
And  mastered  by  his  manhood,  waited  yet, 
And  trembled  at  the  deep  she  could  not  sound,  — 
A  passionate  nature  in  a  storm,  —  a  heart 
Wild  with  a  mortal  pain,  and  in  the  grasp 
Of  an  immortal  love. 

"  Farewell,"  he  said. 
Recovering  words ;  and,  when  she  gave  her  hand, 
"  My  thanks  for  your  good  candor ;  for  I  feel 
That  it  has  cost  you  something."     Then,  the  blush 
Yet  on  her  fixce,  she  said :  "  It  was  your  due  : 
But  keep  this  matter  from  your  friends  and  kin. 
We  would  not  have  it  known."     Then,  cold  and  proud, 
Because  there  leaped  from  under  his  straight  lids. 
And  instantly  was  veiled,  a  keen  surprise,  — 
"  He  wills  it,  and  I  therefore  think  it  well." 
Thereon  they  parted  ;  but  from  that  time  forth, 
Whether  they  met  on  festal  eve,  in  field, 
Or  at  the  church,  she  ever  bore  herself 


LAURANCE.  65 

Proudly,  for  she  had  felt  a  certain  pain; 

The  disapproval  hastily  betrayed 

And  (juickly  hidden  hurt  her.  •  "  'T  was  a  grace," 

She  thought,  "  to  tell  this  man  the  thing  he  asked, 

And  he  rewards  me  with  surprise.     I  like 

No  one's  surprise,  and  least  of  all  bestowed 

^Vhere  he  bestowed  it." 

But  the  spring  came  on. 
Looking  to  wed  In  April,  all  her  thoughts 
Grew  loving;  she  would  fain  the  world  had  waxed 
More  happy  with  her  happiness,  and  oft 
Wiilking  among  the  llowery  woods  she  felt 
Their  loveliness  reach  down  into  her  heart, 
And  knew  with  them  the  ecstasies  of  growth. 
The  rapture  that  was  satisfied  with  light. 
The  jileasure  of  the  leaf  in  exquisite 
Expansion,  through  the  lovely,  longed-for  spring. 

And  as  for  him  —  (Some  narrow  hearts  there  are 

That  suffer  blight  when  that  they  fed  upon. 

As  something  to  complete  their  being,  fails. 

And  they  retire  into  their  holds  anil  jiine, 

And  long  restrained  grow  stern.     But  some  there  are 

That  in  a  sacred  want  and  hunger  rise. 


66  LAURANCE. 

And  draw  the  misery  home  and  live  with  it, 

And  excellent  in  honor  wait,  and  will 

That  somewhat  good  should  yet  be  found  in  it, 

Else  wherefore  were  they  born  ?)  —  and  as  for  him, 

He  loved  her,  but  his  peace  and  welfare  made 

The  sunshine  of  three  lives.     The  cheerful  grange 

Threw  open  wide  its  hospitable  doors 

And  drew  in  guests  for  him.     The  garden  flowers, 

Sweet  budding  wonders,  all  were  set  for  him. 

In  him  the  eyes  at  home  were  satisfied, 

And  if  he  did  but  laugh  the  ear  approved. 

What  then  ?     He  dwelt  among  them  as  of  old. 
And  taught  his  mouth  to  smile. 

And  time  went  on. 
Till  on  a  morning,  when  the  perfect  Spring 
Rested  among  her  leaves,  he,  journeying  home 
After  short  sojourn  in  a  neighboring  town, 
Stopped  at  the  little  station  on  the  line 
That  ran  between  his  woods ;  a  lonely  place 
And  quiet,  and  a  woman  and  a  child 
Got  out.     He  noted  them,  but,  walking  on 
Quickly,  went  back  into  the  wood,  impelled 
By  hope,  for,  passing,  he  had  seen  his  love. 


LAURANCK.  67 

And  she  was  sitting  on  a  rustic  seat 

That  overlooked  the  line,  and  he  desired, 

AVith  longing  indescribable,  to  look 

Upon  her  face  again.     And  he  drew  near. 

She  was  right  happy  ;  she  was  waiting  there. 

He  felt  that  she  was  waiting  for  her  lord. 

She  cared  no  whit  if  Laurance  went  or  stayed, 

But  answered  when  he  spoke,  and  dropped  her  cheek 

In  her  fair  hand. 

And  he,  not  able  yet 
To  force  himself  away,  and  nevermore 
Behold  her,  gathered  blossom,  primrose  flowers, 
And  wild  anemone,  for  many  a  clump 
Grew  all  about  him,  and  the  hazel-rods 
Were  nodding  with  their  catkins.     But  he  heard 
'The  stopping  train,  and  felt  that  he  must  go; 
His  time  was  come.     There  was  naught  else  to  do 
Or  hope  for.     With  the  blossom  he  drew  near. 
And  would  have  had  her  take  it  from  his  hand ; 
But  she,  half  lost  in  thought,  held  out  her  own. 
And  then,  remembering  him  and  his  long  love, 
She  said,  "  I  thank  you ;  jjray  you  now  forget, 
Forget  me,  Laurance,"  and  her  lovely  eyes 
Softened  ;  but  he  was  dumb,  till  through  the  trees 


68  LAURANCE 

Suddenly  broke  upon  their  quietude 

The  woman  and  her  child.     And  Muriel  said, 

•'  What  will  you  ?  "     She  made  answer  quick  and  keen, 

"Your  name,  my  lady ;  't  is  your  name  I  want, 

Tell  me  your  name."     Not  startled,  not  displeased, 

But  with  a  musing  sweetness  on  her  mouth, 

As  if  considering  in  how  short  a  while 

It  would  be  changed,  she  lifted  up  her  face 

And  gave  it,  and  the  little  child  drew  near 

And  pulled  her  gown,  and  prayed  her  for  the  flowers. 

Then  Laurance,  not  content  to  leave  them  so, 

Nor  yet  to  wait  the  coming  lover,  spoke : 

"  Your  errand  with  this  lady  ?  "    "  And  your  right 

To  ask  it  ?  "  she  broke  out  with  sudden  heat 

And  passion  :  "  What  is  that  to  you  ?     Poor  child ! 

Madam  !  "     And  Muriel  lifted  up  her  face 

And  looked,  —  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

*'  That  man  who  comes,"  the  clear-voiced  woman  cried,  — 
"  That  man  with  whom  you  think  to  wed  so  soon, — 
You  must  not  heed  him.     ^Vhat !  the  world  is  full 
Of  men,  and  some  are  good,  and  most,  God  knows, 
Better  than  he,  —  that  I  should  say  it !  —  far 
Better."     And  down  her  face  the  large  tears  ran, 


LAURANCE.  69 

And  Muriel's  wild  dilated  eyes  looked  up, 
Taking  a  terrible  meaning  from  her  words  ; 
And  Laurance  stared  about  him,  half  in  doubt 
If  this  were  real,  for  all  things  were  so  blithe, 
And  soft  air  tossed  the  little  flowers  about ; 
The  child  was  singing,  and  the  blackbirds  piped, 
Glad  in  foir  sunshine.     And  the  women  both 
Were  quiet,  gazing  in  each  other's  eyes. 

He  found  his  voice,  and  spoke :  "  This  is  not  well, 
Though  whom  you  speak  of  should  have  done  you 

wrong ; 
A  man  that  could  desert  and  plan  to  wed 
Will  not  his  purpose  yield  to  God  and  right, 
Only  to  law.     You,  whom  I  pity  so  much. 
If  you  be  come  this  day  to  urge  a  claim, 
You  will  not  tell  me  that  your  claim  will  hold ; 
'T  is  only,  if  I  read  aright,  the  old, 
Sorrowful,  hateful  story  ! " 

Muriel  sighed. 
With  a  dull  patience  that  he  marvelled  at : 
"  Be  plain  with  me.     I  know  not  what  to  think, 
Unless  you  are  his  wife.     Are  you  his  wife  ? 
Be  plain  with  me."     And  all  too  quietly. 


70  LAURANCE. 

With  running  down  of  tears,  the  answer  came, 

"  Ay,  madam,  ay  !  the  worse  for  him  and  me." 

Then  Muriel  heard  her  lover's  foot  anear. 

And  cried  upon  him  with  a  bitter  cry, 

Sharp  and  despairing.     And  those  two  stood  back, 

With  such  affright  and  violent  anger  stirred, 

He  broke  from  out  the  thicket  to  her  side, 

Not  knowing.     But,  her  hands  before  her  face. 

She  sat ;  and,  stepping  close,  that  woman  came 

And  faced  him.     Then  said  Muriel,  '•  O  my  heart, 

Herbert !  "  —  and  he  was  dumb,  and  ground  his  teeth. 

And  lifted  up  his  hand  and  looked  at  it, 

And  at  the  woman ;  but  a  man  was  there 

Who  whirled  her  from  her  place,  and  thrust  himself 

Between  them;  he  was  strong,  —  a  stalwart  man  : 

And  Herbert,  thinking  on  it,  knew  his  name. 

"  What  good,"  quoth  he,  "  though  you  and  I  sliould  strive 

And  wrestle  all  this  April  day  ?     A  word, 

And  not  a  blow,  is  what  these  women  want : 

Master  yourself,  and  say  it."     But  he,  weak 

With  passion  and  great  anguish,  flung  himself 

Upon  the  seat  and  cried,  "  O  lost,  my  love  ! 

0  Muriel,  Muriel  !  "     And  the  woman  spoke, 

"  Sir,  't  was  an  evil  day  you  wed  with  me ; 


LAURANCE.  71 

And*  you  were  young ;  I  know  it,  sir,  right  well. 

Sir,  I  have  worked  ;  I  have  not  troubled  you, 

Not  for  myself,  nor  for  your  child.     I  know 

We  are   not    equal."       "  Hold  I  "    he    cried  ;    "  have 

done; 
Tour  still,  tame  words  are  worse  than  hate  or  scorn. 
Get  from  me  !     Ay,  my  wife,  my  wife,  indeed  ! 
All 's  done.     You  hear  it,  Muriel ;  if  you  can, 
O  sweet,  forgive  me." 

Then  the  woman  moved 
Slowly  away ;  her  little  singing  child 
Went  in  her  wake ;  and  Muriel  dropped  her  hands, 
And  sat  before  these  two  that  loved  her  so. 
Mute  and  unheeding.     There  were  angry  words, 
She  knew,  but  yet  she  could  not  hear  the  words  ; 
And  afterwards  the  man  she  loved  stooped  down 
And  kissed  her  forehead  once,  and  then  withdrew 
To  look  at  her,  and  with  a  gesture  pray 
Her  pardon.     And  she  tried  to  speak,  but  failed, 
And  presently,  and  soon,  O,  —  he  was  gone. 

She  heard  him  go,  and  Laurance,  still  as  stone, 
Remained  beside  her  ;  and  she  put  her  hand 
Before  her  face  again,  and  afterward 


! 


72  LAURANCE. 

She  heard  a  voice,  as  if,  a  long  way  off, 

Some  one  entreated,  but  she  could  not  heed. 

Thereon  he  drew  her  hand  away,  and  raised 

Her  passive  ft'om  her  seat.     So  then  she  knew 

That  he  would  have  her  go  with  him,  go  home,  — 

It  was  not  far  to  go,  —  a  dreary  home. 

A  crippled  aunt,  of  birth  and  lineage  high, 

Had,  in  her  youth,  and  for  a  place  and  home, 

Married  the  stern  old  rector ;  and  the  girl 

Dwelt  with  them  :  she  was  orphaned,  —  had  no  kin 

Nearer  than  they.     And  Laurance  brought  her  In, 

And  spared  to  her  the  telling  of  this  woe. 

He  sought  her  kindred  where  they  sat  apart, 

And  laid  before  them  all  the  cruel  thing, 

As  he  had  seen  It.     After,  he  retired  ; 

And  restless,  and  not  master  of  himself. 

He  day  and  night  haunted  the  rectory  lanes  ; 

And  all  things,  even  to  the  spreading  out 

Of  leaves,  their  flickering  shadows  on  the  ground, 

Or  sailing  of  the  slow,  white  cloud,  or  peace 

And  glory  and  great  light  on  mountain  heads,  — 

All  things  were  leagued  against  him,  ministered 

By  likeness  or  by  contrast  to  his  love. 

But  what  was  that  to  Muriel,  though  her  peace 


{ 


LAURANCE.  73 

He  would  have  purchased  for  her  with  all  prayers, 
And  costly,  passionate,  despairing  tears  ? 
O,  what  to  her  that  he  should  find  it  worse 
To  bear  her  life's  undoing  than  his  own  ? 

She  let  him  see  her,  and  she  made  no  moan, 
But  talked  full  calmly  of  indifferent  things, 
Which  when  he  heard,  and  marked  the  faded  eyes 
And  lovely  wasted  cheek,  he  started  up 
With  "  This  I  cannot  bear !  "  and  shamed  to  feel 
His  manhood  giving  way,  and  utterly 
Subdued  by  her  sweet  patience  and  his  pain, 
Made  haste  and  from  the  window  sprang,  and  paced, 
Battling  and  chiding  with  himself,  the  maze. 

She  suffered,  and  he  could  not  make  her  well 
For  all  his  loving ;  —  he  was  naught  to  her. 
And  now  his  passionate  nature,  set  astir. 
Fought  with  the  pain  that  could  not  be  endured  ; 
And  like  a  wild  thing,  suddenly  aware 
That  it  is  caged,  which  flings  and  bruises  all 
Its  body  at  the  bars,  he  rose,  and  raged 
Against  the  misery  :  then  he  made  all  worse 
With  tears.     But  when  he  came  to  her  again, 
Willing  to  talk  as  they  had  talked  before, 


74  LAUKANCE. 

She  sighed,  and  said,  with  that  strange  quietness, 
"  I  know  you  have  been  crying  "  :  and  she  bent 
Her  own  fair  head  and  wept. 

She  felt  the  cold  — 
The  freezing  cold  that  deadened  all  her  life  — 
Give  way  a  little  ;  for  this  passionate 
Sorrow,  and  all  for  her,  relieve'd  her  heart, 
And  brought  some  natural  warmth,  some  natural  tears. 


ui. 


And  after  that,  though  oft  he  sought  her  door. 

He  might  not  see  her.     First  they  said  to  him, 

"  She  is  not  well  "  ;  and  afterwards,  "  Her  wish 

Is  ever  to  be  quiet."     Then  in  haste 

They  took  her  from  the  place,  because  so  fast 

She  faded.     As  for  him,  —  though  youth  and  strength 

Can  bear  the  weight  as  of  a  world,  at  last 

The  burden  of  it  tells,  —  he  heard  it  said, 

When  autumn  came,  "  The  poor  sweet  thing  will  die : 

That  shock  was  mortal."     And  he  cared  no  more 

To  hide,  if  yet  he  could  have  hidden,  the  blight 

That  was  laying  waste  his  heart.     He  journeyed  south 


LAURAXCE.  75 

To  Devon,  where  she  dwelt  with  other  kin, 
Good,  kindly  women  ;  and  he  wrote  to  them, 
Praying  that  he  might  see  here  ere  she  died. 

So  in  her  patience  she  permitted  him 

To  be  about  her,  for  it  eased  his  heart ; 

And  as  for  her  that  was  to  die  so  soon, 

What  did  it  signify  ?     She  let  him  weep 

Some  passionate  tears  beside  her  couch,  she  spoke 

Pitying  words,  and  then  they  made  him  go. 

It  was  enough,  they  said ;  her  time  was  short, 

And  he  had  seen  her.     He  had  seen,  and  felt 

The  bitterness  of  death ;  but  he  went  home, 

Being  satisfied  in  that  great  longing  now. 

And  able  to  endure  what  might  befall. 

And  Muriel  lay,  and  faded  with  the  year ; 
She  lay  at  the  door  of  death,  that  opened  not 
To  take  her  in  ;  for  when  the  days  once  more 
Began  a  little  to  increase,  she  felt, — 
And  it  was  sweet  to  her,  she  was  so  young,  — 
She  felt  a  longing  for  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  dreamed  that  she  was  walking  in  that  wood 
With  her  two  feet  among  the  primroses. 


76         '  LAURANCE. 

Then  when  the  violet  opened,  she  rose  up 
And  walked.     The  tender  leaf  and  tender  light 
Did  solace  her ;  but  she  was  white  and  wan, 
The  shadow  of  that  Muriel  in  the  wood 
Who  listened  to  those  deadly  words. 

And  now 
Empurpled  seas  began  to  blush  and  bloom, 
Doves  made  sweet  moaning,  and  the  guelder-rose 
In  a  great  stillness  dropped,  and  ever  dropped. 
Her  wealth  about  her  feet,  and  there  it  lay, 
And  drifted  not  at  all.     The  lilac  spread 
Odorous  essence  round  her ;  and  full  oft. 
When  Muriel  felt  the  warmth  her  pulses  cheer, 
She,  faded,  sat  among  the  May-tide  bloom, 
And  with  a  reverent  quiet  in  her  soul. 
Took  back  —  it  was  His  will  —  her  time,  and  sat 
Learning  again  to  live. 

Thus  as  she  sat 
Upon  a  day,  she  was  aware  of  one 
Who  at  a  distance  marked  her.     This  again 
Another  day,  and  she  was  vexed,  for  yet 
She  longed  for  quiet ;  but  she  heard  a  foot 
Pass  once  ajiain.  and  beckoned  through  the  trees. 


LAURANCE.  77 

"  Laurancc  !  "     And  all  impatient  of  unrest 

And  strife,  ay,  even  of  the  sight  of  them, 

When  he  drew  near,  with  tired,  tired  lips, 

As  if  her  soul  upbraided  him,  she  said, 

"  Why  have  you  done  this  thing  ?  "     He  answered  her, 

"  I  am  not  always  master  in  the  fight : 

I  could  not  help  it." 

"  What !  "  she  sighed,  "  not  yet ! 
O,  I  am  sorry  " ;  and  she  talked  to  him 
As  one  who  looked  to  live,  imploring  him,  — 
"  Try  to  forget  me.     Let  your  fancy  dwell 
Elsewhere,  nor  me  enrich  with  it  so  long  ; 
It  wearies  me  to  think  of  this  your  love. 
Forget  me ! " 

He  made  answer,  "  I  will  try : 
The  task  will  take  me  all  my  life  to  learn, 
Or,  were  it  learned,  I  know  not  how  to  live  ; 
This  pain  is  part  of  life  and  being  now,  — 
It  is  myself;  but  yet  —  but  I  will  try." 
Then  she  spoke  friendly  to  him,  —  of  his  home, 
His  father,  and  the  old,  brave,  loving  folk  ; 
She  bade  him  think  of  them.     And  not  her  words, 
But  having  seen  her,  satisfied  his  heart. 
He  left  her,  and  went  home  to  live  his  life. 


78  LAUKANCE. 

And  all  the  summer  heard  it  said  of  her, 

"  Yet,  she  grows  stronger  "  ;  but  when  autumn  came 

Again  she  drooped. 

A  bitter  thing  it  is 
To  lose  at  once  the  lover  and  the  love  ; 
For  who  receiveth  not  may  yet  keep  life 
In  the  spirit  with  bestowal.     But  for  her, 
This  Muriel,  all  was  gone.     The  man  she  loved. 
Not  only  from  her  present  had  withdrawn, 
But  from  her  past,  and  there  was  no  such  man, 
There  never  had  been. 

He  was  not  as  one 
Who  takes  love  in,  like  some  sweet  bii-d,  and  holds 
The  winged  fluttering  stranger  to  his  breast, 
Till,  after  transient  stay,  all  unaware 
It  leaves  him  :  it  has  flown.     No  ;  this  may  live 
In  memory,  —  loved  till  death.     He  was  not  vile ; 
For  who  by  choice  would  part  with  that  pure  bird, 
And  lose  the  exultation  of  its  song  ? 
He  had  not  strength  of  will  to  keep  it  fast, 
Nor  warmth  of  heart  to  keep  it  warm,  nor  life 
Of  thought  to  make  the  echo  sound  for  h'un 
After  the  song  was  done.     Pity  that  man : 
His  music  is  all  flown,  and  he  forgets 


LAUKAXCE.  79 

The  sweetness  of  it,  till  at  last  he  thinks 

'T  was  no  great  matter.     But  he  was  not  vile, 

Only  a  thing  to  pity  most  in  man, 

Weak,  —  only  poor,  and,  if  he  knew  it,  undone. 

But  Herbert !     When  she  mused  on  it,  her  soul 

Would  fain  have  hidden  him  forevermore. 

Even  from  herself,  —  so  pure  of  speech,  so  frank, 

So  full  of  household  kindness.     Ah,  so  good 

And  true !     A  little,  she  had  sometimes  thought, 

Despondent  for  himself,  but  strong  of  faith 

In  God,  and  faith  in  her,  this  man  had  seemed. 

Ay,  he  was  gone !  and  she  whom  he  had  wed, 
As  Muriel  learned,  was  sick,  was  poor,  was  sad. 
And  Muriel  wrote  to  comfort  her,  and  send. 
From  her  small  store,  money  to  help  her  need, 
AVith,  "  Pray  you  keep  it  secret."     Then  the  whole 
Of  the  cruel  tale  was  told. 

What  more  ?     She  died. 
Her  kin,  profuse  of  thanks,  not  bitterly. 
Wrote  of  the  end.     "  Our  sister  fain  had  seen 
Her  husband  ;  prayed  him  sore  to  come.     But  no. 
And  then  she  prayed  him  that  he  would  forgive. 
Madam,  her  breaking  of  the  truth  to  you. 


80  LAURAXCE. 

Dear  madam,  he  was  angry,  yet  we  think 
He  might  have  let  her  see,  before  she  died, 
The  words  she  wanted,  but  he  did  not  write 
Till  she  was  gone,  — '  I  neither  can  forgive, 
Nor  would  I  if  I  could.'  " 

"  Patience,  my  heart ! 
And  this,  then,  is  the  man  I  loved  ! " 

But  yet 
He  sought  a  lower  level,  for  he  wrote, 
Telling  the  story  with  a  different  hue,  — 
Telling  of  freedom.     He  desired  to  come, 
"  For  now,"  said  he,  "  O  love,  may  all  be  well." 
And  she  rose  up  against  it  in  her  soul, 
For  she  despised  him.     And  with  passionate  tears 
Of  shame,  she  wrote,  and  only  wrote  these  words, — 
"  Herbert,  I  will  not  see  you." 

Then  she  drooped 
Again ;  it  is  so  bitter  to  despise  ; 
And    all   her    strength,   when    autumn    leaves    down 

dropped, 
Fell  from  her.     "  Ah  !  "  she  thought,  "  I  rose  up  once, 
I  cannot  rise  uj)  now  ;  here  is  the  end." 
And  all  her  kinsfolk  thought,  "  It  is  the  end." 


LAURANCE.  81 

But  when  that  other  heard,  "  It  is  the  end," 
His  heart  was  sick,  and  he,  as  by  a  power 
Far  stronger  than  himself,  was  driven  to  her. 
Reason  rebelled  against  it,  but  his  will 
Required  it  of  him  with  a  craving  strong 
As  life,  and  passionate  though  hopeless  pain. 

She,  when  she  saw  his  face,  considered  him 

Full  (juietly,  let  all  excuses  pass 

Not  answered,  and  considered  yet  again. 

"  He  had  heard  that  she  was  sick  ;  what  could  he  do 
But  come,  and  ask  her  pardon  that  he  came  ?  " 
What  could  he  do,  indeed  ?  —  a  weak  white  girl 
Held  all  his  heartstrings  in  her  small  white  hand  ; 
His  youth,  and  power,  and  majesty  were  hers, 
And  not  his  own. 

She  looked,  and  pitied  him, 
Then  spoke  :  "  He  loves  me  with  a  love  that  lasts. 
Ah  me !  that  I  might  get  away  from  it. 
Or,  better,  hear  it  said  that  love  is  not. 
And  then  I  could  have  rest.     IMy  time  is  short, 
I  think,  —  so  short."     And  roused  against  himself 
In  stormy  wrath,  that  it  should  be  his  doom 
9 


82  LAURANCE. 

Her  to  disquiet  whom  he  loved,  —  ay,  her 
For  whom  he  would  have  given  all  his  rest, 
If  there  were  any  left  to  give,  —  he  took 
Her  words  up  bravely,  promising  once  more 
Absence,  and  praying  pardon  ;  but  some  tears 
Dropped  quietly  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Remain," 
She  said,  "  for  there  is  something  to  be  told, 
Some  words  that  you  must  hear. 

"  And  first,  hear  this  : 
God  has  been  good  to  me  ;  you  must  not  think 
That  I  despair.     There  is  a  quiet  time 
Like  evening  in  my  soul.     I  have  no  heart, 
For  cruel  Herbert  killed  it  long  ago, 
And  death  strides  on.     Sit,  then,  and  give  your  mind 
To  listen,  and  your  eyes  to  look  at  me. 
Look  at  my  face,  Laurance,  how  white  it  is  ; 
Look  at  my  hand,  —  my  beauty  is  all  gone." 
And  Laurance  lifted  up  his  eyes ;  he  looked. 
But  answered,  from  their  deeps  that  held  no  doubt, 
Far  otherwise  than  she  had  willed :  they  said, 
"  Lovelier  than  ever." 

Yet  hor  words  went  on, 
Cold,  and  so  quiet,  "I  have  suffered  much. 


I.AURAXCE.  83 

And  I  would  fain  that  none  who  care  for  me 
Should  suH'er  a  like  pang  that  I  can  spare. 
Therefore,"  said  she,  and  not  at  all  could  blush, 
"  I  have  brought  my  mind  of  late  to  think  of  this : 
That  since  your  life  is  spoilt  (not  willingly, 
My  God,  not  willingly  by  me),  't  were  well 
To  give  you  choice  of  griefs. 

"  Were  it  not  best 
To  weep  for  a  dead  love,  and  afterwards 
Be  comforted  tlie  sooner,  that  she  died  (^ 

Remote,  and  left  not  in  your  house  and  life 
Aught  to  remind  you  ?     That  indeed  were  best. 
But  were  it  best  to  weep  for  a  dead  wife, 
And  let  the  sorrow  spend  and  satisfy 
Itself  with  all  expression,  and  so  end  ? 
I  think  not  so ;  but  if  for  you  't  is  best, 
Then,  —  do  not  answer  with  too  sudden  words : 
It  matters  much  to  you  ;  not  much,  not  much 
To  me,  —  then  truly  I  will  die  your  wife  ; 
I  will  marry  you." 

What  was  he  like  to  say, 
But,  overcome  with  love  and  tears,  to  choose 
The  keener  sorrow,  —  take  it  to  his  heart. 


84  LAURANCE. 

Cherish  it,  make  it  part  of  him,  and  watch 

Those  eyes,  that  were  his  light,  till  they  should  close  ? 

He  answered  her  with  eager,  faltering  words, 

"  I  choose,  —  my  heart  is  yours,  —  die  in  my  arms." 

But  was  it  well  ?     Truly,  at  first,  for  him 

It  was  not  well :  he  saw  her  fiide,  and  cried, 

"  When  may  this  be  ?  "     She  answered,  "  When  you 

will," 
And  cared  not  much,  for  very  faint  she  grew, 
Tired  and  cold.     Oft  in  her  soul  she  thought, 
"  If  I  could  slip  away  before  the  ring 
Is  on  my  hand,  it  were  a  blessed  lot 
For  both,  —  a  blessed  thing  for  him,  and  me." 

But  it  was  not  so ;  for  the  day  had  come,  — 
AVas  over  :  days  and  months  had  come,  and  Death,  — 
Within  whose  shadow  she  had  lain,  which  made 
Earth  and  its  loves,  and  even  its  bitterness, 
IndilTe^^f  nt,  —  Death  withdrew  himself,  and  life 
Woke  uj),  and  found  that  it  was  folded  fast. 
Drawn  to  another  life  forevermorc. 


LAURANCE.  85 

O,  what  a  waking !     After  It  there  came 

Great  silence.     She  got  up  once  more,  in  spring, 

And  walked,  but  not  alone,  among  the  llowers. 

She  thought  within  herself,  "  What  have  I  done  ? 

How  shall  I  do  the  rest  ?  "     And  he,  who  felt 

Her  inmost  thought,  was  silent  even  as  she. 

"  What  have  we  done  ?  "  she  thought.     But  as  for  him, 

When  she  began  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

Considering,  "  Thus  and  thus  his  features  are," 

For  she  had  never  thought  on  them  before. 

She  read  their  grave  repose  aright.     She  knew 

That  in  the  stronghold  of  his  heart,  held  back. 

Hidden  reserves  of  measureless  content 

Kept  house  with  happy  thought,  for  her  sake  nmte. 

Most  patient  Muriel !  when  he  brought  her  home. 

She  took  the  place  they  gave  her,  —  strove  to  please 

His  kin,  and  did  not  fall ;  but  yet  thought  on, 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  how  shall  I  do  the  rest  ? 

Ah  !  so  contented,  Laurancc,  with  this  wife 

That  loves  you  not,  for  all  the  stateliness 

And  grandeur  of  your  manhood,  and  the  deeps 

In  your  blue  eyes."     And  after  that  awhile 

She  rested  from  such  thinking,  put  it  by 


86  LAURANCE. 

And  waited.     She  had  thought  on  death  before  : 
But  no,  this  Muriel  was  not  yet  to  die ; 
And  when  she  saw  her  little  tender  babe, 
She  felt  how  much  the  happy  days  of  life 
Outweigh  the  sorrowful.     A  tiny  thing, 
"Whom  when  it  slept  the  lovely  mother  nursed 
With  reverent  love,  whom  when  it  woke  she  fed 
And  wondered  at,  and  lost  herself  in  long 
Kapture  of  watching,  and  contentment  deep. 

Once  while  she  sat,  this  babe  upon  her  knee, 
Her  husband  and  his  father  standing  nigh. 
About  to  ride ;  the  grandmother,  all  pride 
And  consequence,  so  deep  in  learned  talk 
Of  infants,  and  their  little  ways  and  wiles. 
Broke  off  to  say,  "  I  never  saw  a  babe 
So  like  its  father."     And  the  thought  was  new 
To  Muriel ;  she  looked  up,  and  when  she  looked, 
Iler  husband  smiled.     And  she,  the  lovely  bloom 
Flushing  her  face,  would  fain  he  had  not  known. 
Nor  noticed  her  surprise.     But  he  diil  know  ; 
Yet  there  was  pleasure  in  his  smile,  and  love 
Tender  and  strong.     He  kissed  her,  kissed  his  babe, 
With  "  (jroody,  you  are  left  in  charge,  take  care." 


LAUUANCE.  87 

"  As  if  I  needed  telling,"  quoth  the  dame  ; 
And  they  were  gone. 

Then  Muriel,  lost  in  thought, 
Gazed  ;  and  the  grandmother,  with  open  pride, 
Tended  the  lovely  pair  ;  till  Muriel  said, 
"  Is  she  so  like  ?     Dear  granny,  get  me  now 
The  picture  that  his  father  has  "  ;  and  soon 
The  old  woman  put  it  in  her  hand. 

The  wife. 
Considering  it  with  deep  and  strange  delight. 
Forgot  for  once  her  babe,  and  looked  and  learned. 

A  mouth  for  mastery  and  manful  work, 

A  certain  brooding  sweetness  in  the  eyes, 

A  brow,  the  harbor  of  grave  thought,  and  hair 

Saxon  of  hue.     She  conned  ;  then  blushed  again, 

Remembering  now,  when  she  had  looked  on  him, 

The  sudden  radiance  of  her  husband's  smile. 

But  Muriel  did  not  send  the  picture  back ; 
She  kept  it ;  while  her  beauty  and  her  babe 
Flourished  together,  and  in  health  and  peace 
She  lived. 

Her  husband  never  said  to  her, 


88  LAURANCE. 

"  Love,  are  you  happy  ?  "  never  said  to  her, 

"  Sweet,  do  you  love  me  ?"  and  at  first,  whene'er 

They  rode  together  in  the  lanes,  and  paused, 

Stopping  their  horses,  when  the  day  was  hot, 

In  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  to  watch  the  clouds, 

Ruffled  in  drifting  on  the  jagged  rocks 

That  topped  the  mountains,  —  when  she  sat  by  him, 

Withdrawn  at  even  while  the  summer  stars 

Came  starting  out  of  nothing,  as  new  made, 

She  felt  a  little  trouble,  and  a  wish 

That  he  would  yet  keep  silence,  and  he  did. 

That  one  reserve  he  would  not  touch,  but  still 

Respected. 

Muriel  grew  more  brave  in  time, 
And  talked  at  ease,  and  felt  disquietude 
Fade.     And  another  child  was  given  to  her. 

"  Now  we  shall  do,"  the  old  great-grandsire  cried, 
"  For  this  is  the  right  sort,  a  boy."     "  Fie,  fie," 
Quoth  the  good  dame ;  "  but  never  heed  you,  love, 
He  thinks  them  both  as  right  as  right  can  be." 

But  Laurance  went  from  home,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Was  three  weeks  old.     It  fretted  him  to  go, 


LAURAXCE.  89 

But  yet  he  said,  "  I  must " :  and  she  was  left 
Much  with  the  kindly  dame,  whose  gentle  care 
AVas  like  a  mother's  ;  and  the  two  could  talk 
Sweetly,  for  all  the  difi'erence  in  their  years. 

But  unaware,  the  wife  betrayed  a  wish 

That  she  had  known  why  Laurance  left  her  thus. 

"  Ay,  love,"  the  dame  made  answer ;  "  for  he  said, 

'  Goody,'  before  he  left, '  if  INIuriel  ask 

No  question,  tell  her  naught ;  but  if  she  let 

Any  disquietude  appear  to  you. 

Say  what  you  know,' "      "  ^Vhat  ?"   Muriel  said,  and 

laughed, 
"  I  ask,  then." 

"  Child,  it  is  that  your  old  love, 
Some  two  months  past,  was  here.     Nay,  never  start : 
lie  's  gone.     He  came,  our  Laurance  met  him  near ; 
He  said  that  he  was  going  over  seas, 
'  And  might  I  see  your  wife  this  only  once. 
And  get  her  pardon  ? '  " 

"  Mercy  !  "  ^luriel  cried, 
"  But  Laurance  does  not  wish  it  ?  " 

"  Nay,  now,  nay," 
Quoth  the  good  dame. 


90  LAURANCE. 

"  I  cannot,"  Muriel  cried ; 
"  He  does  not,  surely,  think  I  should." 

"Not  he," 
The  kind  old  woman  said,  right  soothingly. 
"  Does  not  he  ever  know,  love,  ever  do 
What  you  like  best  ?  " 

And  Muriel,  trembling  yet, 
Agreed.     "  I  heard  him  say,"  the  dame  went  on, 
"  For  I  was  with  him  when  they  met  that  day, 
'  It  would  not  be  agreeable  to  my  wife ' " 

Then  Muriel,  pondering,  —  "  And  he  said  no  more? 

You  think  he  did  not  add,  '  nor  to  myself  ?  " 

And  with  her  soft,  calm,  inward  voice,  the  dame 

Unruffled  answered,  "  No,  sweet  heart,  not  he : 

Wliat  need  he  care  ?  "   "  And  why  not  ?  "  INIuriel  cried, 

Longing  to  hear  the  answer.     "  O,  he  knows. 

He  knows,  love,  very  well :  "  —  with  that  she  smiled. 

"  Bless  your  fair  face,  you  have  not  really  thought 

He  did  not  know  you  loved  him  ?  " 

Muriel  said, 
"  He  never  told  me,  goody,  that  he  knew." 
"  "Well,"  (luoth  the  dame,  "  but  it  may  cliance,  my  dear, 
That  he  thinks  best  to  let  old  troubles  sleep : 


I 


LAURANCE.  91 

Why  need  he  rouse  them  ?     You  are  happy,  sure  ? 
But  if  one  asks,  '  Art  happy  ?  '  why,  it  sets 
The  thoughts  a-working.     No,  say  I,  let  love, 
Let  peace  and  happy  folk  alone. 

"  He  said, 
*  It  would  not  be  agreeable  to  my  wife.* 
And  he  went  on  to  add ;  in  course  of  time 
That  he  would  ask  you,  when  it  suited  you, 
To  write  a  few  kind  words." 

"  Yes,"  Muriel  said, 
"  I  can  do  that." 

"  So  Laurance  went,  you  see," 
The  soft,  voice  added,  "  to  take  down  that  child. 
Laurance  had  written  oft  about  the  child, 
And  now,  at  last,  the  father  made  it  known 
He  could  not  take  him.     He  has  lost,  they  say. 
His  money,  with  much  gambling  ;  now  he  wants 
To  lead  a  good,  true,  working  life.     He  wrote, 
And  let  this  so  be  seen,  that  Laurance  went 
And  took  the  child,  and  took  the  money  down 
To  pay." 

And  Muriel  found  her  talking  sweet. 
And  asked  once  more,  the  rather  tliat  she  longed 
To  speak  again  of  Laurance,  "  And  you  tliink 


92  LAURANCE. 

He  knows  I  love  him  ?  " 

"  Ay,  good  sooth,  he  knows 
No  fear ;  but  he  is  like  his  father,  love. 
His  father  never  asked  my  pretty  child 
One  prying  question ;  took  her  as  she  was  ; 
Trusted  her ;  she  has  told  me  so  :  he  knew 
A  woman's  nature.     Laurance  is  the  same. 
He  knows  you  love  him ;  but  he  will  not  speak  ; 
No,  never.     Some  men  are  such  gentlemen  ! " 


t 


1 


SONGS   OF   THE   NIGHT  WATCHES, 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  SONG  OF  EVENING,  AND  A 
CONCLUDING  SONG  OP  THE  EARLY  DAY. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

{Old  English  Manner.) 
APPRENTICED. 

"  /"    ^  OME  out  and  hear  the  waters  shoot,  the  owlet 
V_y         hoot,  the  owlet  hoot ; 

Yon  crescent  moon,  a  golden  boat,  hangs  dim  behind 
the  tree,  O ! 
The  dropping  thorn  makes  white  the  gi-ass,  O  sweet- 
est lass,  and  sweetest  lass  ; 
Come  out  and  smell  the  ricks  of  hay  adown  the  croft 
with  me,  O  ! " 

"  My  granny  nods  before  her  wheel,  and  drops  her  reel, 
and  drops  her  reel ; 
My  father  with  his  crony  talks  as  gay  as  gay  can 
be,  O! 


94  SONGS    OF    THE   NIGHT    WATCHES. 

But  all  the  milk  is  yet  to  skim,  ere  light  wax  dim,  ere 
light  wax  dim ; 
How  can  I  step  adown  the  croft,  my  'prentice  lad, 
with  thee,  O  ?  " 

•'And  must  ye  bide,  yet  waiting's  long,  and  love  is 
strong,  and  love  is  strong  ; 
And  O  !  had  I  but  served  the  time,  that  takes  so 
long  to  flee,  O ! 
And  thou,  my  lass,  by  morning's  light  wast  all  in  white, 
wast  all  In  white, 
And  parson  stood  within  the  rails,  a-marrying  me 
and  thee,  O." 


THE    FIRST    WATCH. 

TIRED. 

I. 

O,  I  WOULD  tell  you  more,  but  I  am  tired ; 

For  I  have  longed,  and  I  have  had  my  will ; 
I  pleaded  In  my  spirit,  I  desired  : 

"  Ah  !  let  me  only  sec  him,  and  be  still 
All  my  days  after." 


SONGS    OF    THE   NIGHT    WATCHES.  95 

Rock,  and  rock,  and  rock, 
Over  the  flilling,  rising  watery  world, 

Sail,  beautiful  ship,  along  the  leaping  main  ; 
The  chirping  land-birds  follow  flock  on  flock 

To  light  on  a  warmer  plain. 
White  as  weaned  lambs  the  little  wavelets  curled, 
Fall  over  in  harmless  play. 
As  these  do  far  away  ; 
Sail,  bird  of  doom,  along  the  shimmering  sea, 
All  under  thy  broad  wings  that  overshadow  thee. 


I  am  so  tired, 
If  I  would  comfort  me,  I  know  not  how. 
For  I  have  seen  thee,  lad,  as  I  desired, 
And  I  have  nothing  left  to  long  for  now. 

Nothing  at  all.     And  did  I  wait  for  thee. 

Often  and  often,  while  the  light  grew  dim. 
And  through  the  lilac-branches  I  could  see, 
Under  a  saffron  sky,  the  purple  rim 
O'  the  heaving  moorland  ?  Ay.     And  then  would  float 
Up  from  behind  —  as  it  were  a  golden  boat, 


96  SONGS   OF   THE   NIGHT    WATCHES. 

Freighted  with  flmcies,  all  o'  the  wonder  of  life, 

Love  — such  a  slender  moon,  going  up  and  up, 
Waxing  so  fast  from  night  to  night, 
And  swelling  like  an  orange  flower-bud,  bright, 

Fated,  methought,  to  round  as  to  a  golden  cup. 
And  hold  to  my  two  lips  life's  best  of  wine. 
Most  beautiful  crescent  moon, 
Ship  of  the  sky  ! 
Across  the  unfurrowed  reaches  sailing  high. 

Methought  that  it  would  come  my  way  full  soon, 
Laden  with  blessings  that  were  all,  all  mine,  — 
A  golden  ship,  with  balm  and  spiceries  rife, 
That  ere  its  day  was  done  should  hear  thee  call  me 
•wife. 


All  over  !  the  celestial  sign  hath  failed  ; 

The  orange  flower-bud  shuts  ;  the  ship  hath  sailed. 

And  sunk  behind  the  long  low-lying  hills. 
The  love  that  fed  on  daily  kisses  dieth ; 
The  love  kept  warm  by  nearness  lieth. 
Wounded  and  wan ; 
The  love  hope  nourished  bitter  tears  distils, 
And  faints  with  naught  to  feed  upon. 


I 


SONGS    OF   THE   NIGHT    WATCHES.  97 

Only  there  stlrreth  very  deep  below 

The  hidden  beating  slow, 

And  the  blind  yearning,  and  the  long-drawn  breath 

Of  the  love  that  conquers  death. 


Had  we  not  loved  'full  long,  and  lost  all  fear, 
My  ever,  my  only  dear  ? 
Yes  ;  and  I  saw  thee  start  upon  thy  way, 
So  sure  that  -we  should  meet 
Upon  our  trysting-day. 
And  even  absence  then  to  me  was  sweet, 
Because  it  brought  me  time  to  brood 
Upon  thy  dearness  in  the  solitude. 
But  ah  !  to  stay,  and  stay. 
And  let  that  moon  of  April  wane  itself  away. 

And  let  the  lovely  May 
Make  ready  all  her  buds  for  June ; 
And  let  the  glossy  finch  forego  her  tune 
That  she  brought  with  her  in  the  spring. 
And  nevermore,  I  think,  to  me  can  sing ; 
And  then  to  lead  thee  home  another  bride, 
In  the  sultry  summer-tide. 


98  SONGS   OF    THE   NIGHT    WATCHES. 

And  all  forget  me  save  for  shame  full  sore, 
That  made  thee  pray  me,  absent,  "  See  my  face  no 
more." 

V. 

O,  hard,  most  hard  !     But  while  my  fretted  heart 
Shut  out,  shut  down,  and  full  of  pain, 
■Sobbed  to  itself  apart, 
Ached  to  itself  in  vain, 
One  came  who  loveth  me 

As  I  love  thee 

And  let  my  God  remember  him  for  this, 
As  I  do  hope  He  will  forget  thy  kiss, 
Nor  visit  on  thy  stately  head 
Aught  that  thy  mouth  hath  sworn,  or  thy  two  eyes  have 

said 

He  came,  and  it  was  dark.     He  came,  and  sighed. 
Because  he  knew  the  sorrow,  —  whispering  low. 
And  fast,  and  thick,  as  one  that  speaks  by  rote  : 
"  The  vessel  lieth  in  the  river  reach, 
A  mile  above  the  beach, 
And  she  will  sail  at  the  turning  o'  the  tide." 
He  said,  "  I  have  a  boat, 
And  were  it  good  to  go, 


SONGS    OF    THE   NlOnX    AVATCHKS.  99 

And  unbeholden  in  the  vessel's  wake 
Look  on  the  man  thou  lovedst,  and  forgive, 
As  he  embarks,  a  shameful  fugitive. 
Come,  then,  "with  me." 


O,  how  he  sighed  !     The  little  stars  did  wink. 
And  it  was  very  dark.     I  gave  mj-  hand,  — 
He  led  me  out  across  the  pasture  land. 
And  through  the  narrow  croft, 
Down  to  the  river's  brink. 
AVhen  thou  wast  full  in  sjiring,  thou  little  sleepy  thing. 
The  yellow  flags  that  broidered  thee  would  stand 
Up  to  their  chins  in  water,  and  full  oft 
We  pulled  them  and  the  other  shining  flowers, 

That  all  are  gone  to-day  : 
We  two,  that  had  so  many  things  to  say. 

So  many  hopes  to  render  clear : 
And  they  are  all  gone  after  thee,  my  dear,  — 
Gone  after  those  sweet  hours. 
That  tender  light,  that  balmy  rain  ; 
Gone  "  as  a  wind  that  passeth  away. 
And  Cometh  not  acaln." 


100  SONGS   OF    THE   NIGHT   WATCHES. 


I  only  saw  the  stars,  —  I  could  not  see 
The  river,  —  and  they  seemed  to  lie 
As  far  below  as  the  other  stars  were  high. 

I  trembled  like  a  thing  about  to  die  : 
It  was  so  awful  'neath  the  majesty 
Of  that  great  crystal  height,  that  overhung 
The  blackness  at  our  feet, 
Unseen  to  fleet  and  fleet 
The  flocking  stars  among, 
And  only  hear  the  dipjiing  of  the  oar, 
And  the  small  wave's  caressing  of  the  darksome  shore- 


VIII. 

Less  real  it  was  than  any  dream. 
Ah  me !  to  hear  the  bending  willows  shiver, 
As  we  shot  quickly  from  the  silent  river, 

And  felt  the  swaying  and  the  flow 
That  bore  us  down  the  deeper,  wider  stream. 

Whereto  its  nameless  waters  go  : 
O !  I  shall  always,  when  I  shut  mine  eyes, 

See  that  weird  sight  again  ; 


SONGS   OF    THE   XIGIIT   WATCHES.  101 

The  lights  from  anchored  vessels  hung ; 
The  phantom  moon,  that  sprung 
Suddenly  up  in  dim  and  angry  wise, 
From  the  rim  o'  the  moaning  main, 
And  touched  with  elfin  light 
The  two  long  oars  whereby  we  made  our  flight, 
Along  the  reaches  of  the  night ; 
Then  furrowed  up  a  lowering  cloud. 
Went  in,  and  left  us  darker  than  before. 
To  feel  our  way  as  the  midnight  watches  wore, 
And  lie  in  her  lee,  with  mournful  faces  bowed, 
That  should  receive  and  bear  with  her  away 
The  brightest  portion  of  ray  sunniest  day,  — 
The  laughter  of  the  land,  the  sweetness  of  the  shore. 


And  I  beheld  thee :  saw  the  lantern  flash 

Down  on  thy  face,  when  thou  didst  climb  the  side. 

And  thou  wert  pale,  pale  as  the  patient  bride 

That  followed  :  both  a  little  sad. 
Leaving  of  home  and  kin.     Thy  courage  glad. 

That  once  did  bear  thee  on. 
That  brow  of  thine  had  lost ;  the  fervor  rash. 


102  SONGS    OF    THE   NIGHT    WATCHES. 

Of  unforeboding  youth  thou  hadst  foregone. 
O,  what  a  little  moment,  what  a  crumb 
Of  comfort  for  a  heart  to  feed  upon  ! 
And  that  was  all  its  sum  : 
A  glimpse,  and  not  a  meeting,  — 
A  drawing  near  by  night, 
To  sigh  to  thee  an  unacknowledged  greeting, 
And  all  between  the  flashing  of  a  light 
And  its  retreating. 


Then  after,  ere  she  spread  her  wafting  wings. 
The  ship,  —  and  weighed  her  anchor  to  depart. 
We  stole  from  her  dark  Ice,  like  guilty  things ; 

And  there  was  silence  in  my  heart. 
And  silence  in  the  upper  and  the  nether  deep. 

O  sleep !  O  sleep  ! 
Do  not  forget  me.     Sometimes  come  and  sweep, 
Now  I  have  nothing  left,  thy  healing  hand 
Over  the  lids  that  crave  thy  visits  bland, 
Thou  kind,  thou  comforting  one  : 
For  I  have  seen  his  face,  as  I  desired, 
And  all  my  story  is  done. 
O,  I  am  tired  ! 


SONGS   OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCHES.  103 


THE    MIDDLE    WATCH. 

I. 

I  WOKE  in  the  night,  and  the  darkness  was  heavy  and 
deep ; 
I  had  known  it  was  dark  in  my  sleep, 
And  I  rose  and  looked  out, 
And  the  fathomless  vault  was  all  sparkUng,  set  thick 

round  about 
With  the  ancient  inhabiters  silent,  and  wheeling  too  far 
For  man's  heart,  Uke  a  voyaging  frigate,  to  sail,  where 
remote 
In  the  sheen  of  their  glory  they  float, 
Or  man's  soul,  like  a  bird,  to  fly  near,  of  their  beams  to 
partake. 
And  dazed  in  their  wake, 
Drink  day  tliat  is  born  of  a  star. 
I  murmured,  "  Remoteness  and  greatness,  how  deep  you 
are  set. 
How  afir  in  the  rim  of  the  whole  ; 
You  know  nothing  of  me,  nor  of  man,  nor  of  earth,  O, 
nor  yet 


104  SONGS   OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCHES. 

Of  our  light-bearer,  —  drawing  the   marvellous  moons 
as  they  roll, 
Of  our  regent,  the  sun. 
I  look  on  you  trembling,  and  think,  in  the  dark  with  my 

soul, 
"  How  small  is  our  place  'mid  the  kingdoms  and  nations 
of  God  : 
These  are  greater  than  we,  every  one." 
And  there  falls  a  great  fear,  and  a  dread  cometh  over, 
that  cries, 
"  O  my  hope  !     Is  there  any  mistake  ? 
Did  He  speak  ?     Did  I  hear  ?     Did  I  listen  aright,  if 

He  spake  ? 
Did  I  answer  Him  duly  ?  for  surely  I  now  am  awake. 

If  never  I  woke  until  now." 
And  a  light,  baffling  wind,  that  leads  nowhither,  plays 

on  my  brow. 
As  a  sleep,  I  must  think  on  ray  day,  of  my  path  as 

untrod, 
Or  trodden  in  dreams,  in  a  dreamland  whose  coasts  are 

a  doubt ; 
Whose   countries   recede   from   my    thoughts,   as  they 
grope  round  about, 
And  vanish,  and  tell  me  not  how. 


SONGS   OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCUES.  105 

Be  kind  to   our   darkness,   O  Fashioner,   dwelling  in 
light. 
And  feeding  the  lamps  of  the  sky  ; 
Look  down  upon  this  one,  and  let  it  be  sweet  in  Thy 
sight, 
I  pray  Thee,  to-night. 
O  watch  whom  Thou  madest  to  dwell  on  its  soil.  Thou 

Most  High ! 
For  this  is  a  world  full  of  sorrow  (there  may  be  but 

one)  ; 
Keep  watch  o'er  its  dust,  else  Thy  children  for  aye  are 
undone. 
For  this  is  a  world  where  we  die. 


With  that,  a  still  voice  in  my  spirit  that  moved  and  that 

yearned, 
(There  fell  a  great  calm  while  it  spake,) 
I  had  heard  it  erewhile,  but  the  noises  of  life  are  so 

loud, 
That  sometimes  it  dies  in  the  cry  of  the  street  and  the 

crowd  : 
To   the   simple   it  cometh,  —  the  child,  or   asleep,   or 

awake, 


106  SONGS    OF   THE   NIGHT    WATCHES. 

And   they  know  not  from  whence ;   of  its  nature  the 

wise  never  learned 
By   his   wisdom ;   its   secret   the   worker   ne'er  earned 
By  his  toil ;  and  the  rich  among  men  never  bought  with 
his  gold  ; 
Nor  the  times  of  its  visiting  monarchs  controlled, 

Nor  the  jester  put  down  with  his  jeers 
(For  it  moves  where  it  will),  nor  its  season  the 
aged  discerned 
By  thought,  in  the  ripeness  of  years. 

O  elder  than  reason,  and  stronger  than  will ! 
A  voice,  when  the  dark  world  is  still : 
Whence  cometh  it  ?     Father  Immortal,  thou  knowest ! 

and  we, — 
We  are  sure  of  that  witness,  that  sense  which  is  sent  us 

of  Thee  ; 
For  it  moves,  and  it  yearns  in  its  fellowship  mighty  and 

dread, 
And  let  down  to  our  hearts  it  is  touched  by  the  tears 

that  wc  shed  ; 
It  is  more  than  all  meaCnings,  and  over  all  strife  ; 
On  its  tongue  are  the  laws  of  our  life. 
And  it  counts  up  the  timea  of  the  dead. 


SONGS   OF    THE   NIGHT    WATCHES.  107 

III. 

I  will  fear  you,  O  stars,  never  more. 
I  have  felt  it !     Go  on,  while  the  world  is  asleep. 
Golden  islands,  fast  moored  in  God's  infinite  deep. 
Hark,  hark  to  the  words  of  sweet  fashion,  the  harpings 

of  yore ! 
How  they  sang  to  Him,  seer  and  saint,  in  the  far  away 
lands : 
"  The  heavens  arc  the  work  of  Thy  hands ; 
They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  shalt  endure ; 
Yea,  they  all  shall  wax  old,  — 
But  Thy  throne  is  established,  O  God,  and  Thy  years 
are  made  sure ; 
They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  shalt  endure, — 
They  shall  pass  like  a  tale  that  is  told." 

Doth  He  answer,  the  Ancient  of  Days  ? 
Will  He  speak  in  the  tongue  and  the  fashion  of 
men? 
(Hist !  hist !  while  the  heaven-hung  multitudes  shine  In 

His  praise, 
His  language  of  old.)     Nay,  He  spoke  with  them  first ; 
it  was  then 
They  lifled  their  eyes  to  His  throne  : 


4i 

108  SONGS   OF    THE    NIGHT   WATCHES. 

"  They  shall  call  on  Me,  '  Thou  art  our  Father,  our 

God,  Thou  alone  ! ' 
For  I  made  them,  I  led  them  In  deserts  and  desolate 
ways ; 
I  have  found  them  a  Ransom  Divine ; 
I  have  loved  them  with  love  everlasting,  the  children  of 
men ; 
I  swear  by  Myself,  they  are  Mine." 


THE    MORNING    WATCH. 
THE   COMING  IN  OF  THE  "  MERMAIDEN." 

THE  moon  is  bleached  as  white  as  wool, 
And  just  dropping  under  ; 
Every  star  is  gone  but  three, 

And  they  hang  far  asunder,  — 
There 's  a  sea-ghost  all  in  gray, 
A  tall  shape  of  wonder  ! 

I  am  not  satisfied  with  sleeps  — 
The  niffht  is  not  ended. 


SONGS   OF   THE   NIGHT   WATCHES,  109 

But  look  how  the  sea-ghost  comes, 

With  wan  skirts  extended, 
Stealing  up  in  this  weird  hour. 

When  light  and  dark  are  blended. 

A  vessel !     To  the  old  pier  end 

Her  happy  course  she  's  keeping  ; 
I  heard  them  name  her  yesterday  : 

Some  were  pale  with  weeping  ; 
Some  with  their  heart-hunger  sighed  ; 

She  's  in,  —  and  they  are  sleeping. 

O  !  now  with  fancied  greetings  blest, 

They  comfort  their  long  aching  : 
The  sea  of  sleep  hath  borne  to  them 

What  would  not  come  with  waking, 
And  the  dreams  shall  most  be  true 

In  their  blissful  breaking. 

The  stars  are  gone,  the  rose-bloom  comes,  — 

No  blush  of  maid  is  sweeter  ; 
The  red  sun,  half  way  out  of  bed. 

Shall  be  the  first  to  greet  her. 
None  tell  the  news,  yet  sleepers  wake, 

And  rise,  and  run  to  meet  her. 


ri 


110  SONGS    OF    THE   NIGHT    WATCHES. 

Their  lost  they  have,  they  hold  ;  from  pain 

A  keener  bliss  they  borrow. 
How  natural  is  joy,  my  heart ! 

How  easy  after  sorrow  ! 
For  once,'  the  best  is  come  that  hope 

Promised  them  "  to-morrow." 


CONCLUDING  SONG  OF  DAWN. 

{Old  English  Mannei\) 
A   MORN   OF  MAY. 

ALL  the  clouds  about  the  sun  lay  up  in  golden 
creases, 
(Merry  rings  the  maiden's  voice  that  sings  at  dawn 

of  day;) 
Lambkins  woke  and  skipped  around  to  dry  their  dewy 

fleeces. 
So  sweetly  as  she  carolled,  all  on  a  morn  of  May. 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  Here  I  '11  halt ;  here  's  wine  of 
joy  for  drinking ; 


SONGS    OF    THE   XIGHT    WATCHES.  Ill 

To  my  heart  she  sets  her  hand,   and   in    the   strings 

doth  phiy  ; 
All  among  the  daffodils,  and  fairer  to  my  thinking, 
And  fresh  as   milk   and  roses,  she  sits  this    morn    of 

May." 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  "Work  is  work,  but  any  ye  might 

make  me. 
If  I  worked  for  you,  dear  lass,  I  'd  count  my  holiday. 
I  'm  your  slave  for  good  and  all,  an'   if  ye  will  but 

take  me, 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  upon  this  morn  of  May." 

"  Medals  count  for  worth,"  quoth  she,  "  and  scars  are 

worn  for  honor ; 
But  a  slave  an'  if  ye  be,  kind  wooer,  go  your  way." 
AU  the  nodding  daffodils  woke  up  and  laughed  upon 

her. 
O  !  sweetly  did  she  carol,  all  on  that  morn  of  May. 

Gladsome  leaves  upon  the   bough,   they  fluttered  fast 

and  faster, 
Fretting  brook,  till  he  would  speak,  did  chide  the  dull 

delay : 


112  SONGS    OF    THE   NIGHT   WATCHES. 

Beauty  !  when  I  said  a  slave,  I  tliink  I  meant  a  mas- 
ter ; 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  all  on  this  morn  of  May. 

"  Lass,  I  love   you !     Love  is  strong,  and  some  men's 

hearts  are  tender." 
Far  she   sought  o'er  wood   and   wold,  but  found   not 

aught  to  say  ; 
Mounting  lark  nor  mantling  cloud  would  any  counsel 

render, 
Though  sweetly  she  had  carolled  upon  that  morn  of 

May. 

Shy,  she  sought  the  wooer's  face,  and  deemed  the  woo- 
ing mended ; 

Proper  man  he  was,  good  sooth,  and  one  would  have 
his  way  : 

So  the  lass  was  made  a  wife,  and  so  the  song  was 
ended. 

O !  sweetly  she  did  carol  all  on  that  morn  of  May. 


A   STORY  OF  DOOM. 


BOOK  I. 

NILOIYA  said  to  Noali,  "  What  ailetb  thee,  • 
]\Iy  master,  unto  whom  is  my  desire, 
The  father  of  my  sons  ?  "     He  answered  her, 
"  Mother  of  many  children,  I  have  heard 
The  Voice  again."     "  Ah,  me !  "  she  saith,  "  ah,  me ! 
What  spake  it?"  and  with  tliat  Niloiya  sighed. 

This  when  the  Master-buiUler  heard,  his  heart 
Was  sad  in  him,  the  while  he  sat  at  home 
And  rested  after  toil.     The  steady  rap 
O '  the  shipwright's  hammer  sounding  up  the  vale 
Did  seem  to  mock  him ;  but  her  distaff  down 
Niloiya  laid,  and  to  the  doorplace  went. 
Parted  the  purple  covering  seemly  hung 
Before  it,  and  let  in  the  crimson  light 


114  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Of  the  descending  sun.     Then  looked  he  forth,  — 
Looked,  and  beheld  the  hollow  where  the  ark 
Was  a-preparing  ;  where  the  dew  distilled 
All  night  from  leaves  of  old  lign-aloe-trees, 
Upon  the  gliding  river ;  where  the  palm, 
The  almug,  and  the  gophir  shot  their  heads 
Into  the  crimson  brede  that  dyed  the  world  : 
And  lo  !  he  marked  —  unwieldy,  dark,  and  huge  — 
The  ship,  his  glory  and  his  grief,  —  too  vast 
For  that  still  river's  floating,  —  building  far 
From  mightier  streams,  amid  the  pastoral  dells 
Of  shepherd  kings. 

Niloiya  spake  again : 
"  What  said  the  Voice,  thou  well-beloved  man  ?  " 
He,  laboring  with  his  thought  that  troubled  liim, 
(Spoke  on  behalf  of  God :  "  Behold,"  said  he, 
"  A  little  handful  of  unlovely  dust 
He  fashioned  to  a  lordly  grace,  and  when 
He  laughed  upon  Its  beauty,  it  waxed  warm, 
And  with  His  breath  awoke  a  living  soul. 

"  Shall  not  the  Fashioner  command  His  work  ? 
And  who  am  I,  that,  if  He  wliispiT,  '  Rise, 
Go  forth  upon  Mine  errand,'  should  reply, 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  115 

'  Lord,  God,  I  love  the  woman  and  her  sons,  — 
I  love  not  scorning  ;  I  beseech  Thee,  God, 
Have  me  excused.' " 

She  answered  him,  "  Tell  on." 
And  he  continuing,  reasoned  with  his  soul : 
"  What  though  I  —  like  some  goodly  lama  sunk 
In  meadow  grass,  eating  her  way  at  ease, 
Unseen  of  them  that  pass,  and  asking  not 
A  wider  prospect  than  of  yellow  flowers 
That  nod  above  her  head  —  should  lay  me  down. 
And  willingly  forget  this  high  behest. 
There  should  be  yet  no  tarrying.     Furthermore, 
Though  I  went  forth  to  cry  against  the  doom. 
Earth  crieth  louder,  and  she  draws  it  down : 
It  hangeth  balanced  over  us;  she  crieth, 
And  it  shall  fall.     O  !  as  for  me,  my  life 
Is  bitter,  looking  onward,  for  I  know 
That  in  the  fulness  of  the  time  shall  dawn 
That  day  :  my  preaching  shall  not  bring  forth  fruit. 
Though  for  its  sake  I  leave  thee.     I  shall  float 
Upon  the  abhorred  sea,  that  mankind  hate, 
With4.hee  and  thine." 

She  answered :  "  God  forbid ! 
For,  sir,  though  men  be  evil,  yet  the  deep 


116  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

They  dread,  and  at  the  last  will  surely  turn 
To  Him,  and  He  long-suffering  will  forgive, 
And  chide  the  waters  back  to  their  abyss, 
To  cover  the  pits  where  doleful  creatures  feed. 
Sir,  I  am  much  afraid  ;  I  would  not  hear 
Of  riding  on  the  waters  :  look  you,  sir, 
Better  it  were  to  die  with  you  by  hand 
Of  them  that  hate  us,  than  to  live,  ah  me  ! 
Rolling  among  the  furrows  of  the  unquiet, 
Unconsecrate,  unfriendly,  dreadful  sea." 

He  saith  again  :  "  I  pray  thee,  woman,  peace, 
For  thou  wilt  enter,  when  that  day  appears, 
The  fateful  ship." 

"  My  lord,"  quoth  she,  "  I  will. 
But  O,  good  sir,  be  sure  of  this,  be  sure 
The  Master  calleth ;  for  the  time  is  long 
That  thou  hast  warned  the  world :  thou  art  but  here 
Three  days ;  the  song  of  welcoming  but  now 
Is  ended.     I  behold  thee,  I  am  glad  ; 
And  wilt  thou  go  again  ?     Husband,  I  say. 
Be  sure  who  't  is  that  calleth ;  O,  be  sure. 
Be  sure.     My  mother's  ghost  came  up  last  night, 
Whilst  I  thy  beard,  held  in  my  hands  did  kiss, 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  117 

Leaning  ancar  thee,  wakeful  through  my  love, 
And  watchful  of  thee  till  the  moon  went  down. 


"  She  never  loved  me  since  I  went  with  thee 
To  sacrifice  among  the  hills :  she  smelt 
The  holy  smoke,  and  could  no  more  divine 
Till  the  new  moon.     I  saw  her  ghost  come  up ; 
It  had  a  snake  with  a  red  comb  of  fire 
Twisted  about  its  waist,  —  the  doggish  head 
Lolled  on  its  shoulder,  and  so  leered  at  me. 
*  This  woman  might  be  wiser,'  quoth  the  ghost ; 
'  Shall  there  be  husbands  for  her  found  below, 
"When  she  comes  down  to  us  ?     O,  fool !  O,  fool ! 
She  must  not  let  her  man  go  forth,  to  leave 
Her  desolate,  and  reap  the  whole  world's  scorn, 
A  harvest  for  himself.'     With  that  they  passed." 

He  said:  "My  crystal  drop  of  perfectness, 
I  pity  thee  ;  it  was  an  evil  ghost : 
Thou  wilt  not  heed  the  counsel  ?  "     "  I  will  not," 
Quoth  she ;  "  I  am  loyal  to  the  Highest.     Him 
I  hold  by  even  as  thou,  and  deem  Him  best- 
Sir,  am  I  fairer  than  when  last  we  met  V  " 


118  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

"  God  add,"  said  he,  "  unto  thy  much  yet  more, 
As  I  do  think  thou  art."     "  And  think  you,  sir," 
Niloiya  saith,  "  that  I  have  reached  the  prime  ?  " 
He  answering,  "  Nay,  not  yet."     "  I  would  't  were  so," 
She  plaineth,  "  for  the  daughters  mock  at  me  : 
Her  locks  forbear  to  grow,  they  say,  so  sore 
She  pineth  for  the  master.     Look  you,  sir, 
They  reach  but  to  the  knee.     But  thou  art  come, 
And  all  goes  merrier.     Eat,  my  lord,  of  all 
My  supper  that  I  set,  and  afterward 
Tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  somewhat  of  thy  way ; 
Else  shall  I  be  despised  as  Adam  was. 
Who  compassed  not  the  learning  of  his  sons, 
But,  grave  and  silent,  oft  would  lower  his  head 
And  ponder,  following  of  great  Isha's  feet, 
When  she  would  walk  with  her  fair  brow  upraised. 
Scorning  the  children  that  she  bare  to  him." 

"  Ay,"  quotli  the  Master ;  "  but  they  did  amiss 

When  they  despised  their  father :  knowest  thou  that  ?  " 

"  Sure  he  was  foolisher,"  Niloiya  saith, 

"  Than  any  that  came  after.     Furthermore, 

lie  had  not  heart  nor  courace  for  to  rule  : 


A   STOUY   OF    DOOM.  119 

He  let  the  mastery  fall  from  his  slack  hand. 
Had  not  our  glorious  mother  still  borne  up 
His  weakness,  chid  with  him,  and  sat  apart. 
And  listened,  when  the  fit  came  over  him 
To  talk  on  his  lost  garden,  he  had  sunk 
Into  the  slave  of  slaves." 

"  Nay,  thou  must  think 
How  he  had  dwelt  long,  God's  loved  husbandman, 
And  looked  in  hope  among  the  tribes  for  one 
To  be  his  fellow,  ere  great  Islia,  once 
Waking,  he  found  at  his  left  side,  and  knew 
The  deep  delight  of  speech."     So  Noah,  and  thus 
Added,  "  And  therefore  was  his  loss  the  more ; 
For  though  the  creatures  he  had  singled  out 
His  favorites,  dared  for  him  the  fiery  sword 
And  followed  after  him,  —  shall  bleat  of  lamb 
Console  one  for  the  foregone  talk  of  God  V 
Or  in  the  afternoon,  his  faithful  dog, 
Fawning  upon  him,  make  his  heart  forget 
At  such  a  time,  and  such  a  time,  to  have  heard 
What  he  shall  hear  no  more  ? 

"  0,  as  for  him, 
It  was  for  this  that  he  full  oft  would  stop, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  stand  and  revolve  that  deed, 


120  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Sad  muttering,  '  Woman  !  we  reproach  tliee  not ; 
Though  thou  didst  eat  mine  immortality ; 
Earth,  be  not  sorry  ;  I  was  free  to  choose.' 
Wonder  not,  therefore,  if  he  walked  forlorn. 
Was  not  the  helpmeet  given  to  raise  him  up 
From  his  contentment  with  the  lower  things  ? 
Was  she  not  somewhat  that  he  could  not  rule 
Beyond  the  action,  that  he  could  not  have 
By  the  mere  holding,  and  that  still  aspired 
And  drew  him  after  her?     So,  when  deceived 
She  fell  by  great  desire  to  rise,  he  fell 
By  loss  of  upward  drawing,  when  she  took 
An  evil  tongue  to  be  her  counsellor  : 
'  Death  is  not  as  the  death  of  lower  things, 
Rather  a  glorious  change,  begrudged  of  Heaven, 
A  change  to  being  as  gods,'  —  he  from  her  hand, 
Upon  rellection,  took  of  death  that  hour, 
And  ate  it  (not  the  death  that  she  had  dared)  ; 
He  ate  it  knowing.     Then  divisions  came. 
She,  like  a  spirit  strayed  who  lost  the  way, 
Too  venturesome,  among  the  farther  stars, 
And  hardly  cares,  because  it  hardly  hopes 
To  find  the  path  to  heaven  ;  in  bitter  wise 
Did  bear  to  him  degenerate  seed,  and  he, 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  121 

Once  having  felt  her  upward  drawing,  longed, 
And  yet  aspired,  and  yearned  to  be  restored, 
Albeit  she  drew  no  more." 

"  Sir,  ye  speak  well," 
Niloiya  saith,  "  but  yet  the  mother  sits 
Higher  than  Adam.     He  did  understand 
Discourse  of  birds  and  all  four-footed  things, 
But  she  had  knowledge  of  the  many  tribes 
Of  angels  and  their  tongues ;  their  playful  ways 
And  greetings  when  they  met.     Was  she  not  wise  ? 
They  say  she  knew  much  that  she  never  told, 
And  had  a  voice  that  called  to  her  as  thou." 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Master-shipwright,  "  who  am  I 

That  I  should  answer  ?     As  for  me,  poor  man, 

Here  is  my  trouble  :  '  if  there  be  a  Voice,' 

At  first  I  cried,  '  let  me  behold  the  mouth 

That  uttereth  it.'     Thereon  it  held  its  peace. 

But  afterward,  I,  journeying  up  the  hills, 

Did  hear  it  hollower  than  an  echo  flillcn 

Across  some  clear  abyss ;  and  I  did  stop, 

And  ask  of  all  my  company,  '  AA'^hat  cheer  ? 

If  there  be  spirits  abroad  that  call  to  us. 

Sirs,  hold  your  peace  and  hear.'     So  they  gave  heed, 


122  A   STOllY   OF    DOOM. 

And  one  man  said,  '  It  is  the  small  ground-doves 

That  peck  upon  the  stony  hillocks ' ;  one, 

'  It  is  the  mammoth  in  yon  cedar  swamp 

That  cheweth  in  his  dream  ' ;  and  one,  '  My  lord. 

It  is  the  ghost  of  hitn  that  yesternight 

VV^e  slew,  because  he  grudged  to  yield  his  wife 

To  thy  great  father,  when  he  peaceably 

Did  send  to  take  her.'     Then  I  answered,  '  Pass,' 

And  they  went  on  ;  and  I  did  lay  mine  ear 

Close  to  the  earth ;  but  there  came  uj?  therefrom 

No  sound,  nor  any  speech ;  I  waited  long. 

And  in  the  saying,  '  I  will  mount  my  beast 

And  on,'  I  was  as  one  that  in  a  trance 

Beholdeth  what  is  coming,  and  I  saw 

Great  waters  and  a  ship ;  and  somewhat  spake, 

'  Lo,  this  shall  be  ;  let  him  that  heareth  it, 

And  seeth  it,  go  forth  to  warn  his  kind. 

For  I  will  drown  the  world.'  " 

Niloiya  saith, 
"  Sir,  was  that  all  that  ye  went  forth  upon  ?  " 
The  master,  he  replieth,  "  Ay,  at  first. 
That  same  was  all ;  but  many  days  went  by, 
While  I  did  reason  with  my  heart  and  hope 
For  more,  and  struggle  to  remain,  and  think, 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  123 

'  Let  me  be  certain ' ;  and  so  think  again, 
'  The  counsel  is  but  dark  ;  would  I  had  more ! 
When  I  have  more  to  guide  me,  I  will  go.' 
And  afterward,  when  reasoned  on  too  much, 
It  seemed  remoter,  then  I  only  said, 
'  O,  would  I  h;id  the  same  again  ' ;  and  still 
I  had  it  not. 

"  Then  at  the  last  I  cried, 
'  If  the  unseen  be  silent,  I  will  speak 
And  certify  my  meaning  to  myself. 
Say  that  He  spoke,  then  He  will  make  that  good 
Which  He  hath  spoken.     Therefore  it  were  best 
To  go,  and  do  Ilis  bidding.     All  the  earth 
Shall  hear  the  judgment  so,  and  none  may  cry 
When  the  doom  falls,  "  Thou  God  art  hard  on  us  ; 
We  knew  not  Thou  wert  angry.     0  !  we  are  lost. 
Only  for  lack  of  being  warned." 

"  '  But  say 
That  He  spoke  not,  and  merely  it  befell 
That  I  being  weary  had  a  dream.     Why,  so 
He  could  not  suffer  damage ;  when  the  time 
Was  past,  and  that  T  threatened  had  not  come, 
]\Ien  woidd  cry  out  on  me,  haply  me  kill, 
For  trou'iling  their  content.     They  would  not  swear 


124  A    STORY    OF   DOOM. 

"  God,  that  did  send  this  man,  is  proved  ..^^true," 
But  rather,  "  Let  him  die ;  he  lied  to  us ; 
God  never  sent  hlui."     Only  Thou,  great  King, 
Knowest  if  Thou  didst  speak  or  no.     I  leave 
The  matter  here.     If  Thou  wilt  speak  again, 
I  go  in  gladness  ;  if  Thou  wilt  not  speak, 
Nay,  if  Thou  never  didst,  I  not  the  less 
Shall  go,  because  I  have  believed,  what  time 
I  seemed  to  hear  Thee,  and  the  going  stands 
With  memory  of  believing.'     Then  I  washed, 
And  did  array  me  in  the  sacred  gown, 
And  take  a  lamb." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  Niloiya  sighed, 
"  I  following,  and  I  knew  not  anything 
Till,  the  young  lamb  asleep  in  thy  two  arms, 
We,  moving  up  among  the  silent  hills, 
Paused  in  a  grove  to  rest ;  and  many  slaves 
Came  near  to  make  obeisance,  and  to  bring 
Wood  for  the  sacrifice,  and  turf  and  fire. 
Then  In  their  hearing  thou  didst  say  to  me, 
'  Behold,  I  know  thy  good  fidelity. 
And  theirs  that  are  about  us  ;  thc^  would  guard 
The  mountain  passes,  if  it  were  my  will 
Awhile  to  leave  thee ' ;  and  the  {lygmles  laughed 


A.    STORY   OF    DOOM.  125 

For  joy,  that  thou  wouldst  trust  inferior  things ; 

And  put  their  heads  down,  as  their  manner  is, 

To  touch  our  feet.     They  laughed,  but  sore  I  wept ; 

Sir,  I  could  weep  now  ;  ye  did  ill  to  go 

If  that  was  all  your  bidding  ;  I  had  thought 

God  drave  thee,  and  thou  couldst  not  choose  but  go." 

Then  said  the  son  of  Lamech,  "  Afterward, 
When  I  had  left  thee.  He  whom  I  had  served 
Met  with  nie  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
To  comfoi-t  me  for  that  I  had  withdrawn 
From  thy  dear  company.     He  sware  to  me 
That  no  man  should  molest  thee,  no,  nor  touch 
Tlie  bordering  of  mine  utmost  field.     I  say, 
Wien  I  obeyed,  He  made  His  matters  plain. 
With  whom  could  I  have  left  thee,  but  with  them ; 
Born  in  thy  mother's  house,  and  bound  thy  slaves  ?  " 

She  said,  "  I  love  not  pygmies;  they  are  naught." 
And  he,  "  Who  made  them  pygmies  ?  "  Then  she  pushed 
Her  veiling  hair  back  from  her  round,  soft  eyes. 
And  answered,  wondering,  "Sir,  my  motlicrs  did; 
Ye  know  it."     And  he  drew  her  near  to  sit 
Beside  him  on  the  settle,  answering,  "  A  v." 


126  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

And  they  went  on  to  talk  as  writ  below, 
If  any  one  shall  read  : 

"  Thy  mother  did, 
And  they  that  went  before  her.     Thinkest  thou 
That  they  did  well  ?  " 

"  They  had  been  overcome ; 
And  when  the  angered  conquerors  drave  them  out. 
Behove  them  find  some  other  way  to  rule, 
They  did  but  use  their  wits.     Hath  not  man  aye 
Been  cunning  in  dominion,  among  beasts 
To  breed  for  size  or  swiftness,  or  for  sake 
Of  the  white  wool  he  loveth,  at  his  choice  ? 
What  harm  if  coveting  a  race  of  men 
That  could  but  serve,  they  sought  among  their  thralls, 
Such  as  were  low  of  stature,  men  and  maids ; 
Ay,  and  of  feeble  will  and  quiet  mind  ? 
Did  they  not  spend  niucli  gear  to  gather  out 
Such  as  I  tell  of,  and  for  matching  them 
One  with  another  for  a  thousand  years  ? 
What  harm,  then,  if  there  came  of  it  a  race, 
Inferior  in  their  wits,  and  in  their  size, 
And  well  content  to  serve  ?  " 

" '  What  harm  ?  '  thou  sayest 
My  wife  doth  ask,  '  What  harm  ? ' " 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  127 

"  Your  pardon,  sir. 
I  do  remember  that  there  came  one  day, 
Two  of  the  grave  old  angels  that  God  made. 
When  fii-st  He  invented  life  (right  old  they  were, 
And  plain,  and  venerable)  ;  and  they  said, 
Rebuking  of  my  mother  as  with  hers 
She  sat,  '  Ye  do  not  well,  you  wives  of  men, 
To  match  your  wit  against  the  Maker's  will, 
And  for  your  benefit  to  lower  the  stamp 
Of  His  tair  image,  which  He  set  at  first 
Upon  man's  goodly  frame  ;  ye  do  not  well 
To  treat  His  likeness  even  as  ye  treat 
The  bird  and  beast  that  perish.' " 

"  Said  they  aught 
To  appease  the  ancients,  or  to  speak  them  fair  ?  " 

"  How  know  I  ?     'Twas  a  slave  that  told  it  me. 
My  mother  was  full  old  when  I  was  born. 
And  that  was  in  her  youth.     What  think  you,  sir  V 
Did  not  the  giants  likewise  ill  ?  ", 

"  To  that 
I  have  no  answer  ready.     If  a  man. 
When  each  one  is  against  his  fellow,  rule, 
Or  unmolested  dwell,  or  unreproved, 


128  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Because,  for  size  and  strength,  he  standeth  first, 

He  will  thereof  be  glad ;  and  if  he  say, 

'  I  will  to  wife  choose  me  a  stately  maid, 

And  leave  a  goodly  offspring  ; '  'sooth,  I  think, 

He  sinneth  not ;  for  good  to  him  and  his 

He  would  be  strong  and  great.     Thy  people's  faalt 

Was,  that  for  ill  to  others,  they  did  plot 

To  make  them  weak  and  small." 

"  But  yet  they  steal 
Or  take  in  war  the  strongest  maids,  and  such 
As  are  of  highest  stature ;  ay,  and  oft 
They  fight  among  themselves  for  that  same  cause. 
And  they  are  proud  against  the  King  of  heaven  : 
They  hope  in  course  of  ages  they  shall  come 
To  be  as  strong  as  He." 

The  Master  said, 
"  I  will  not  hear  thee  talk  thereof ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  for  all  this  wicked  world.     Fair  wife, 
I  am  right  weary.     Call  thy  slaves  to  thee, 
And  bid  that  they  prepare  the  sleeping  place. 
O  would  that  I  might  rest !     I  fliin  would  rest. 
And,  no  more  wandering,  tell  a  thankless  world 
M}'  never-heeded  tale !  " 

With  that  she  called. 


A    STORY   OF   DOOM.  129 

Thf  %ioon  was  up,  and  some  few  stars  were  out, 
W'<le  heavy  at  the  heart  he  walked  abroad 
T    meditate  before  his  sleep.     And  yet 
^■^Iloiya  pondered,  "  Shall  my  master  go  ? 
Ind  will  my  master  go  V     "What  'vaileth  it, 
That  he  doth  spend  himself,  over  the  waste 
A-wandering,  till  he  reach  outlandish  folk. 
That  mock  his  warning  ?  O,  what  'vaileth  it, 
That  he  doth  lavish  wealth  to  build  yon  ark, 
Whereat  the  daughters,  when  they  eat  with  me, 
Laugh  ?  O  my  heart !     I  would  the  Voice  were  stilled. 
Is  not  he  happy  ?     Who,  of  all  the  earth, 
Obeycth  like  to  me  ?     Have  not  I  learned 
From  his  dear  mouth  to  utter  seemly  words. 
And  lay  the  powers  my  mother  gave  me  by  ? 
Have  I  made  offerings  to  the  dragon  ?     Nay. 
And  I  am  faithful,  when  he  leaveth  me 
Lonely  betwixt  the  peaked  mountain  tops 
In  this  long  valley,  where  no  stranger  foot 
Can  come  without  my  will.     lie  shall  not  go. 
Not  yet,  not  yet !     But  three  daj-s  —  only  three  — 
Beside  me,  and  a-muttering  on  the  third, 
'  I  have  heard  the  Voice  again.'     Be  dull,  O  dull, 
Mind  and  remembrance  !     Mother,  ye  did  ill ; 


130  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

'T  is  hard  unlawful  knowledge  not  to  use. 
Why,  O  dark  mother,  opened  ye  the  way?  " 
Yet  when  he  entered,  and  did  lay  aside 
His  costly  robe  of  sacrifice,  —  the  robe 
Wherein  he  had  been  offering,  ere  the  sun 
Went  down,  —  forgetful  of  her  mother's  crafl, 
She  lovely  anrl  submiss  did  mourn  to  him : 
"  Thou  wilt  not  go,  —  I  pray  thee  do  not  go, 
Till  thou  hast  seen  thy  children."     And  he  said, 
"  I  will  not.     I  have  cried,  and  have  prevailed : 
To-morrow  it  is  given  me  by  the  Voice 
Upon  a  four-'] ays' join-ney  to  proceed. 
And  follow  down  the  river,  till  its  waves 
Are  swallowed  in  the  sand,  where  no  flesh  dwells. 

"  '  There,'  quoth  the  Unrevealed,  '  we  shall  meet, 

And  I  will  counsel  thee ;  and  thou  shalt  turn 

And  rest  thee  with  the  mother,  and  with  them 

She  bare.'     Now,  therefore,  when  the  morn  appears, 

Thou  fairest  among  women,  call  thy  slaves, 

And  bid  them  yoke  the  steers,  and  spread  thy  car 

With  robes,  the  choicest  work  of  cunning  hands ; 

Array  thee  in  thy  rich  apparel,  deck 

Thy  locks  with  gold ;  and  while  the  hollow  vale 


A    STORY   OF   DOOM.  131 

I  thread  beside  yon  river,  go  thou  forth 

Atween  the  mountains  to  my  father's  house, 

And  let  thj'  slaves  make  all  obeisance  due, 

And  take  and  lay  an  offering  at  his  feet. 

Then  light,  and  cry  to  him,  '  Great  king,  the  son 

Of  old  Methuselah,  thy  son  hath  sent 

To  fefch  the  growing  maids,  his  children,  home.'  " 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  woman,  "  I  will  do  this  thing, 
So  thou  keep  faith  with  me,  and  yet  i-eturn. 
But  will  the  Voice,  think  you,  forbear  to  chide, 
Nor  that  Unseen,  who  calleth,  buffet  thee. 
And  drive  thee  on  ?  " 

He  saith,  "  It  will  keep  faith. 
Fear  not.     I  have  prevailed,  for  I  besought, 
And  lovingly  it  answered.     I  shall  rest, 
And  dwell  with  thee  till  after  my  three  sons 
Come  from  the  chase."     She  said,  "  I  let  them  forth 
In  fear,  for  they  are  young.     Their  .slaves  are  few. 
The  giant  elephants  be  cunning  folk  ; 
They  lie  in  ambush,  and  will  draw  men  on 
To  follow,  —  then  will  turn  and  tread  them  down." 
"  Thy  father's  house  unwisely  planned,"  said  he, 
"  To  drive  them  down  upon  the  growing  corn 


132  A    STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Of  tliem  that  were  their  foes  ;  for  now,  behold, 
They  suffer  while  the  unwieldy  beasts  delay 
lletirement  to  their  lands,  and,  meanwhile,  pound 
The  damp,  deep  meadows,  to  a  pulpy  mash  ; 
Or  wallowing  in  the  waters  foul  them  ;  nay. 
Tread  down  the  banks,  and  let  them  forth  to  flood 
Their  cities  ;  or,  assailed  and  falling,  shake 
The  walls,  and  taint  the  wind,  ere  thirty  men, 
Over  the- hairy  terror  piling  stones 
Or  earth,  prevail  to  cover  it." 

She  said, 
"  Husband,  I  have  been  sorry,  thinking  oft 
I  would  my  sons  were  home  ;  but  now  so  well 
Methinks  it  is  with  me,  that  I  am  fain 
To  wish  they  might  delay,  for  thou  wilt  dwell 
AVlth  me  till  after  they  return,  and  thou 
Hast  set  thine  eyes  upon  them.     Then,  ah  me  ! 
1  nmst  sit  joyless  in  my  place ;  bereft. 
As  trees  that  suddenly  have  dropped  their  leaves, 
And  dark  as  nights  that  have  no  moon." 

She  spake : 
The  hope  o'  the  world  did  hearken,  but  reply 
Made  none.     He  left  his  hand  on  her  fair  locks 
As  she  l;iy  sobbing  ;  and  the  quietness 


i 


A    STORY    OF    DOOM.  133 

Of  night  began  to  comfort  her,  the  fall 

Of  far-off  waters,  and  the  winged  wind 

That  went  among  the  trees.     The  patient  hand, 

Moreover,  that  was  steady,  wrought  with  her. 

Until  she  said,  "  What  wilt  thou  ?     Nay,  I  know. 

I  therefore  answer  what  thou  utterest  not. 

Thou  lovest  me  well,  and  not  for  thine  own  loill 

Consentest  to  depart.     What  more  ?     Ay,  this  : 

/  do  avoio  that  lie  which  calleth  thee 

Hath  riijld  to  call :  and  I  do  swear,  the  Voice 

Shall  have  no  let  of  me  to  do  Its  will." 


BOOK    II. 

NOW  ere  the  sunrise,  while  the  morning  star 
Hung  ^et   behind   the   pine-bough,   woke    and 
prayed 
The  world's  great  shipwright,  and  his  soul  was  glad 
Because  the  Voice  was  favorable.     Now 
Began  the  tap  o'  the  hammer,  now  ran  forth 
The  slaves  preparing  food.     They  therefore  ate 
In  peace  together  ;  then  Xiloiya  forth 
Behind  the  milk-white  steers  went  on  her  way  ; 


134  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

And  the  great  Master-builder,  down  tlie  course 
Of  the  long  river,  on  his  errand  sped, 
And  as  he  went,  he  thought : 

[They  do  not  well 
Who,  walking  up  a  trodden  path,  all  smooth 
With  footsteps  of  their  fellows,  and  made  straight 
From  town  to  town,  will  scorn  at  them  that  woun 
Under  the  covert  of  God's  eldest  trees 
(Such  as  He  planted  with  His  hand,  and  fed 
With  dew  before  rain  fell,  till  they  stood  close 
And  awful ;  drank  the  light  up  as  It  dropt, 
And  kept  the  dusk  of  ages  at  their  roots),  — 
They  do  not  well  who  mock  at  such,  and  cry, 
"  We  peaceably,  without  or  fault  or  fear. 
Proceed,  and  miss  not  of  our  end  ;  but  these 
Are  slow  and  fearful :  with  uncertain  pace, 
And  ever  reasoning  of  the  way,  they  oft,» 
After  all  reasoning,  choose  the  worser  course, 
And,  plunged  in  swamp,  or  in  the  matted  growth 
Niiih  smothered,  strucgle,  all  to  reach  a  ";oal 
Not  worth  their  pains."     Nor  do  they  well  whose  work 
Is  still  to  feed  and  sliulter  them  and  theirs, 
Get  gain,  and  gathered  store  it,  to  think  scorn 
Of  those  who  work  for  a  world  (no  wages  paid 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  135 

By  a  Master  hid  in  light),  and  sent  alone 
To  face  a  laughing  multitude,'  whose  eyes 
Are  full  of  damaging  pity,  that  forbears 
To  tell  the  harmless  laborer,  "  Thou  art  mad."] 

And  as  he  went,  he  thought :  "  They  counsel  me, 

Ay,  with  a  kind  of  reason  in  their  talk, 

'  Consider  ;  call  thy  soberer  thought  to  aid ; 

Why  to  but  one  man  should  a  message  come  ? 

And  why,  if  but  to  one,  to  thee  ?     Art  thou 

Above  us,  greater,  wiser  ?     Had  He  sent, 

He  had  willed  that  we  should  heed.     Then  since  He 

knoweth 
That  such  as  thou  a  wise  man  cannot  heed, 
He  did  not  send.'     My  answer,  '  Great  and  wise. 
If  He  had  sent  with  thunder,  and  a  voice 
Leaping  from  heaven,  ye  must  have  heard  ;  but  so 
Ye  had  been  robbed  of  choice,  and,  like  the  beasts, 
Yoked  to  obedience.     God  makes  no  men  slaves.* 
They  tell  me,  '  God  is  great  above  thy  thought : 
He  meddles  not ;  and  this  small  world  is  ours, 
These  many  hundred  years  we  govern  it  ; 
Old  Adam,  after  Eden,  saw  Him  not.' 
Then  I,  *  It  may  be  Ho  is  gone  to  knead 


136  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

More  clay.     But  look,  my  masters  ;  one  of  you, 

Going  to  warfare,  layeth  up  his  gown, 

His  sickle,  or  his  gold,  and  thinks  no  more 

Upon  it,  till  young  trees  have  waxen  great ; 

At  last,  when  he  returneth,  he  will  seek 

His  own.     And  God,  shall  He  not  do  the  like  ? 

Anil,  having  set  new  worlds  a-rolling,  come 

And  say,  "  I  will  betake  Me  to  the  earth 

That  I  did  make  " ;  and,  having  found  it  vile, 

Be  sorry.     Why  should  man  be  free,  you  wise, 

And  not  the  Master  ?  '     Then  they  answer,  '  Fool ! 

A  man  shall  cast  a  stone  into  the  air 

For  pastime,  or  for  lack  of  heed,  —  but  He  I 

Will  He  come  fingering  of  His  ended  work, 

Fright  it  with  His  approaching  face,  or  snatch 

One  day  the  rolling  wonder  from  its  ring, 

And  hold  it  quivering,  as  a  wanton  child 

Might  take  a  nestling  from  its  downy  bed, 

And,  having  satisfied  a  careless  wish, 

Go  thrust  it  back  into  its  place  again  ? ' 

To  such  T  answer,  and,  that  doubt  once  mine, 

I  am  assured  that  T  do  speak  aright : 

'  Sirs,  the  significance  of  this  your  doubt 

Lies  in  the  reason  of  it ;  ye  do  grudge 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  137 

That  these  your  lands  should  have  another  Lord  ; 
Ye  are  not  loyal,  therefore  ye  .would  fain 
Your  Kin^i  would  bide  afar.     But  if  ye  looked 
For  countenance  and  fovor  when  He  came, 
Knowing  yourselves  right  worthy,  would  ye  care, 
AVith  cautious  reasoning,  deep  and  hard,  to  prove 
That  lie  would  never  come,  and  would  your  wrath 
Be  hot  against  a  prophet  ?     Nay,  I  wot 
That  as  a  flatterer  you  would  look  on  him,  — 
"  Full  of  sweet  words  thy  mouth  is :  if  He  come,  — 
AVe  think  not  that  He  will,  —  but  if  He  come, 
Would  it  might  be  to-morrow,  or  to-night, 
Because  we  look  for  jjraise."  '  " 

Now,  as  he  wont, 
The  noontide  heats  came  on,  and  he  grew  faint  ; 
But  while  he  sat  below  an  almug-tree, 
A  slave  approached  with  greeting.     "  Master,  hail !  " 
He  answered,  "  Hail !   what  wilt  thou  ?  "     Then  sin 

said, 
"  The  palace  of  thy  fithers  standeth  nigh." 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  he  ;  and  .she  said  again, 
"  The  Elder,  learning  thou  wouldst  pass,  hath  sent 
To  fetch  thee."     Then  he  rose  and  followed  her. 
So  first  they  walked  beneath  a  lofty  roof 


138  A    STORY    OF    DOOM. 

Of  living  bougli  and  tendril,  woven  on  high 
To  let  no  drop  of  sunshine  through,  and  hung 
With  gold  and  purple  fruitage,  and  the  white 
Thick  cups  of  scented  blossom.     Underneath, 
Soft  grew  the  sward  and  delicate,  and  flocks 
Of  egrets,  ay,  and  many  cranes,  stood  up, 
Fanning  their  wings,  to  agitate  and  cool 
The  noonday  air,  as  men  with  heed  and  pains 
Had  taught  them,  marshalling  and  taming  them 
To  bear  the  wind  in  on  their  moving  wmgs. 

So  long  time  as  a  nimble  slave  would  spend 
In  milking  of  her  cow,  they  walked  at  ease  ; 
Then  reached  the  palace,  all  of  forest  trunks. 
Brought  whole  and  set  together,  made.     Therein 
Had  dwelt  old  Adam,  when  his  mighty  sons 
Had  finished  it,  and  up  to  Eden  gate 
Had  journeyed  for  to  fetch  him.     "  Here,"  they  said, 
"  Mother  and  father,  ye  may  dwell,  and  here 
Forget  the  garden  wholly." 

So  he  came 
Under  the  doorplace,  and  the  women  sat, 
Each  with  her  finger  on  her  lips  ;  but  he. 
Having  been  called,  went  on,  until  he  reached 


A   STOUY   OF    DOOM.  139 

The  jewelled  settle,  wrought  with  cunning  work 
Of  gold  and  ivory,  whereon  they  wont 
To  set  the  Elder.     All  with  sleekest  skins, 
That  striped  and  spotted  creatures  of  the  wood. 
Had  worn,  the  seat  was  covered,  but  thereon 
The  Elder  was  not :  by  the  steps  thereof, 
Upon  the  floor,  whereto  his  silver  beard 
Did  reach,  he  sat,  and  he  was  in  his  trance. 
Upon  the  settle  many  doves  were  perched, 
That  set  tlie  air  a-going  with  their  wings  : 
These  opposite,  the  world's  great  shipwright  stood 
To  wait  the  burden  ;  and  the  Elder  spake  : 
"  Will  He  forget  me  ?     Would  He  might  forget ! 
Old,  old  !     The  hope  of  old  Methuselah 
Is  all  in  His  forgetfulness."     With  that, 
A  slave-girl  took  a  cup  of  wine,  and  crept 
Anear  him,  saying,  "  Taste  "  ;  and  when  his  lips 
Had  touched  it,  lo,  he  trembled,  and  he  cried, 
"  Behold,  I  prophesy." 

Then  straight  they  fled 
That  were  about  him,  and  did  stand  apart 
And  stop  their  ears.     For  he,  from  time  to  time, 
Was  plagued  with  that  same  fate  to  prophesy, 
And  spake  against  himself,  against  his  day 


140  A    STOKY   OF    DOOM. 

And  timo,  in  woi'.ls  that  all  men  did  abhor. 
Therefore,  he,  warning  them  what  time  the  fit 
Came  on  him,  saved  them,  that  they  heard  it  not. 
So  while  they  fled,  he  cried :  "  I  saw  the  God 
Reach  out  of  heaven  His  wonderful  right  hand. 
Lo,  lo  !  He  dipped  it  in  the  unquiet  sea, 
And  in  its  curved  palm  behold  the  ark, 
As  in  a  vast  calm  lake,  came  floating  on. 
Ay,  then.  His  other  hand  —  the  cursing  hand  — 
He  took  and  spread  between  us  and  the  sun, 
And  all  was  black ;  the  day  was  blotted  out, 
And  horrible  staggering  took  the  frighted  earth. 
I  heard  the  water  hiss,  and  then  methinks 
The  crack  as  of  her  splitting.     Did  she  take 
Their  palaces  that  are  my  brothers  dear, 
And  hudiUe  them  with  nil  their  ancientry 
Under  into  her  breast  ?     If  it  was  black, 
How  could  this  old  man  see  ?     There  was  a  noise 
I'  the  dark,  and  He  drew  back  His  hand  again. 

I  looked  It  wa4  a  dream,  — ^  let  no  man  say 

It  was  aught  else.     Tiiere,  so  —  the  fit  goes  by. 
Sir,  and  my  daughters,  is  it  eventide  ?  — 
Sooner  than  that,  saith  old  Mctliuselah, 
Let  the  vulture  lay  his  beak  to  my  green  limbs. 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  141 

"\^liat !  art  Thou  envious  ?  —  are  the  sons  of  men 
Too  wise  to  please  Thee,  and  to  do  Thy  will  ? 
INIetluiselah,  he  sitteth  on  the  ground, 
Clad  in  his  gown  of  age,  tlie  pale  white  gown, 
And  goeth  not  forth  to  war ;  his  wrinkled  hands 
lie  claspeth  round  his  knees  :  old,  very  old. 
Would  he  could  steal  from  Thee  one  secret  more  — 
The  secret  of  Thy  youth  !     O,  envious  God ! 
We  die.     The  words  of  old  IMcthuselah 
And  his  prophecy  are  ended." 

Then  the  wives, 
Beholding  how  he  trembled,  and  the  maids 
And  children,  came  anear,  saying,  "  Who  art  thou 
That  standest  gazing  on  the  Elder  ?     Lo, 
Thou  dost  not  well :  withdraw  ;  for  it  was  thou 
Whose  stranger  presence  troubled  him,  and  brought 
The  fit  of  prophecy."     And  he  did  turn 
To  look  upon  them,  and  their  majesty 
And  glorious  beauty  took  away  his  words  ; 
And,  being  pure  among  the  vile,  he  cast 
In  his  thought  a  veil  of  snow-white  purity 
Over  the  beauteous  throng.     "  Thou  dost  not  well, " 
Tliey  said.     He  answered  :  "  Blossoms  o'  the  world, 
Fruitful  as  fair,  never  in  watered  glade, 


142  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Where  in  the  youngest  grass  blue  cups  push  forth, 

And  the  white  lily  reareth  up  her  head, 

And  purples  cluster,  and  the  saffron  flower 

Clear  as  a  flame  of  sacrifice  breaks  out, 

And  every  cedar-bough,  made  delicate 

With  climbing  roses,  drops  in  white  and  red,  — 

Saw  T  (good  angels  keep  you  in  their  care) 

So  beautiful  a  crowd." 

With  that  they  stamped. 
Gnashed  their  white  teeth,  and,  turning,  fled  and  spat 
Upon  the  floor.     The  Elder  spake  to  him, 
Yet  shaking  with  the  burden,  "  Who  art  thou  ?  " 
He  answered,  "  I,  the  man  whom  thou  didst  send 
To  fetch  through  this  thy  woodland,  do  forbear 
To  tell  my  name ;  thou  lovest  it  not,  great  sire,  — 
No,  nor  mine  errand.     To  thy  house  I  spake, 
Touching  their  beauty."     "  Wherefore  didst  thou  spite," 
Quoth  he,  "  the  daughters  ?  "  and  it  seemed  he  lost 
Count  of  that  prophecy,  for  very  age, 
And  from  his  thin  lips  dropt  a  trembling  laugh. 
"  Wicked  old  man,"  quoth  he,  "  this  wise  old  man 
I  see  as  't  were  not  I.     Tliou  bad  old  man. 
What  shall  be  done  to  thee  ?  for  thou  didst  burn 
Their  babes,  and  strew  the  ashes  all  about. 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  143 

To  rid  the  world  of  His  white  soldiers.     Ay, 

Scenting  of  human  sacrifice,  they  fled. 

Cowards  !     I  heard  them  winnow  their  great  wings : 

They  went  to  tell  Him  ;  but  they  came  no  more. 

The  women  hate  to  hear  of  them,  so  sore 

They  grudged  their  little  ones  ;  and  yet  no  way 

There  was  but  that.     I  took  it ;  I  did  well." 

With  that  he  fell  to  weeping.     "  Son,  "  said  he, 

"  Long  have  I  hid  mine  eyes  from  stidwart  men, 

For  it  is  hard  to  lose  the  majesty 

And  pride  and  power  of  manhood  :  but  to-day. 

Stand  forth  into  the  light,  that  I  may  look 

Upon  thy  strength,  and  think.  Even  thus  did  I, 

In  the  glory  of  my  youth,  more  like  to  God 

Than  like  His  soldiers,  face  the  vassal  would." 

Tlien  Noah  stood  forward  in  his  majesty. 

Shouldering  the  golden  billhook,  wherewithal 

He  wont  to  cut  his  way,  when  tangled  in 

The  matted  hayes.     And  down  the  opened  roof 

Fell  slanting  beams  upon  his  stately  head. 

And  streamed  along  his  gown,  and  made  to  shine 

The  jewelled  sandals  on  his  feet. 


144  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

And,  lo, 
The  Elder  cried  aloud  :  "  I  prophesy. 
Behold,  my  son  is  as  a  fruitful  field 
When  all  the  lands  are  waste.     The  archers  drew  — 
They  drew  the  bow  against  him ;  they  were  fain 
Tu  slay  :  but  he  shall  live  —  my  son  shall  live,     , 
And  I  shall  live  by  him  in  the  other  days. 
Behold  the  prophet  of  tlie  Most  High  God : 
Hear  him.     Behold  the  hope  o'  the  world,,  what  time 
She  lieth  under.     Hear  him  ;  he  shall  save 
A  seed  alive,  and  sow  the  earth  with  man. 
O  earth  !  eartli !  earth  !  a  floating  shell  of  wood 
Shall  hold  the  remnant  of  thy  mighty  lords. 
Will  this  old  man  be  in  it  ?     Sir,  and  you 
My  daughtei-s,  hear  him  !     Lo,  this  white  old  man 
He  sitteth  on  the  ground.     (Let  be,  let  be : 
Why  dost  Thou  trouble  us  to  make  our  tongue 
Ring  with  abhorred  words  ?)     The  prophecy 
Of  the  Elder,  and  the  vision  that  he  saw 
They  both  are  ended." 

Then  said  Noah :  "  The  life 
Of  this  my  lord  is  low  for  very  age : 
Why  then,  with  bitter  words  upon  thy  tongue. 
Father  of  Laraech,  dost  thou  anger  Him  ? 


A    STORY    OF    DOOM.  145 

Thou  canst  not  strive  against  Iliin  now."'     He  said : 
"  Thy  feet  are  toward  the  valley,  where  lie  bones 
Bleaching  upon  the  desert.     Did  I  love 
Tlie  lithe  strong  lizards  that  I  yoked  and  set 
To  draw  niy  car  ?  and  were  they  not  possessed  ? 
Yea,  all  of  them  were  liars.     I  loved  them  well. 
What  did  the  Enemy,  but  on  a  day 
When  I  behind  my  talking  team  went  forth, 
They  sweetly  lying,  so  that  all  men  praised 
Their  flattering  tongues  and  mild  persuasive  eyes,  — 
What  did  the  Enemy  but  send  His  slaves, 
Angels,  to  cast  down  stones  upon  their  heads 
And  break  them  ?     Nay,  I  could  not  stir  abroad 
But  havoc  came  ;  they  never  crept  or  flew 
Beyond  the  shelter  that  I  builded  here. 
But  straight  the  crowns  I  had  set  upon  their  heads 
Were  marks  for  myrmidons  that  in  the  clouds 
Kept  watch  to  crush  them.     Can  a  man  forgive 
That  hath  been  warred  on  thus  ?     I  will  not.     Nay, 
I  swear  it  —  I,  the  man  Methuselah." 
The  Miister-shipwright,  be  replied,  "  'T  is  true. 
Great  loss  was  that ;  but  they  that  stood  thy  friends, 
The  wicked  spirits,  spoke  upon  their  tongues. 
And  cursed  the  God  of  heaven.     What  marvel,  sir, 


146  A   STOKY   OF    DOOM. 

1[  lie  was  angered  ?  "     But  the  Elder  cried, 

'•  They  all  are  dead,  —  the  toward  beasts  I  loved ; 

My  goodly  team,  my  joy,  they  all  are  dead; 

Theii  bones  lie  bleaching  in  the  wilderness : 

And  I  will  keep  my  wrath  Ibrevermore 

Against  the  Enemy  that  slew  them.     Go, 

Thou  coward  servant  of  a  tyrant  King, 

Go  down  the  desert  of  the  bones,  and  ask, 

'  My  King,  what  bones  are  these  ?     Methuselah, 

The  white  old  man  that  sitteth  on  the  ground, 

Sendeth  a  message,  "  Bid  them  that  they  live, 

And  let  my  lizards  run  up  every  path 

Tlicy  wont  to  take  when  out  of  silver  pipes, 

Tue  pipes  that  Jubal  wrought  into  my  roof, 

T  blew  a  sweeter  cry  than  song-bird's  throat 

Hath  ever  formed  ;  and  while  they  laid  their  heads 

Submiss  upon  my  tlireshold,  poured  away 

Music  that  welled  by  heartsful  out,  and  made 

The  throats  of  men  that  lieard  to  swell,  their  breasts 

To  heave  with  the  joy  of  grief ;  yea,  caused  the  lips 

To  laugh  of  men  asleep. 

Return  to  me 
The  great  wise  lizards ;  ay,  and  them  that  flew 
My  pursuivants  before  me.     Lot  me  yoke 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  147 

Again  that  multitudo  ;  and  here  I  swear 
That  they  shall  draw  my  car  and  me  thereon 
Straight  to  tlie  ship  of  doom.     So  men  shall  know 
My  loyalty,  that  I  submit,  and  Thou 
Shalt  yet  have  honor,  O  mine  Enemy, 
By  me.     The  speech  of  old  Methuselah."  ' " 

Then  Noah  made  answer,  "  By  the  living  God, 

That  is  no  enemy  to  men,  great  sire, 

I  will  not  take  thy  message  ;  hear  thou  Ilim. 

'Behold  (He  saith  that  suffereth  thee),  behold. 

The  earth  that  I  made  green  cries  out  to  Me, 

Red  with  the  costly  blood  of  beauteous  man. 

I  am  robbed,  I  am  robbed  (He  saith)  ;  they  sacrifice 

To  evil  demons  of  My  blameless  flocks, 

That  I  did  fashion  with  My  hand.     Behold, 

How  goodly  was  the  world  I     I  gave  it  thee 

Fresh  from  its  finishing.     What  hast  thou  done  ? 

I  will  cry  out  to  the  waters,  Cover  it, 

And  hide  it  from  its  Father.     Ln,  Mine  eyes 

Turn  from  it  shamed.'  " 

With  that  the  old  man  laughed 
Full  softly.     "  Ay,"  quolh  he,  "  a  goodly  -vorld, 
And  we  have  duuc-  with  It  as  we  did  list. 


148  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Why  did  he  give  it  us  ?     Nay,  look  you,  son : 

Five  score  they  were  that  died  in  yonder  waste  ; 

And  if  He  crieth,  '  Repent,  be  reconciled,' 

I  answer,  '  Nay,  my  lizards ' ;  and  again, 

If  He  will  trouble  me  in  this  mine  age, 

'  Why  hast  Thou  slain  my  lizards  ?  '     Now  my  speech 

Is  cut  away  from  all  my  other  words. 

Standing  alone.     The  Elder  sweareth  it, 

The  man  of  many  days,  Methuselah." 

Then  answered  Noah,  "  My  Master,  hear  it  not ; 
But  yet  have  patience  " ;  and  he  turned  himself, 
And  down  betwixt  the  ordered  trees  went  forth, 
And  in  the  light  of  evening  made  his  way 
Into  the  waste  to  meet  the  Voice  of  God. 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  149 


BOOK    III. 


Above  the  head  of  great  Methusehih 
There  lay  two  demons  in  the  opened  roof, 
Invisible,  and  gathered  up  his  words  ; 
For  when  the  Elder  prophesied,  it  came 
About,  that  hidden  things  were  shown  to  them, 
And  burdens  that  he  spake  against  his  time. 

(But  never  heard  them  such  as  dwelt  with  him ; 
Their  ears  they  stopped,  and  willed  to  live  at  ease 
In  all  delight ;  and  perfect  in  their  j^outh, 
And  strong,  disport  them  in  the  perfect  world.} 

Now  these  were  fettered  that  they  could  not  fly, 

For  a  certain  disobedience  they  had  wrought 

Against  the  ruler  of  their  host ;  but  not 

The  less  they  loved  their  cause  ;  and  when  the  feet 

O'  the  Miister-bullder  were  no  longer  heard, 

They,  slipping  to  the  sward,  right  painfully 

Did  follow,  for  the  one  to  the  other  said, 

"  Behouves  our  uiastt;  kno.v  ul  th.s  ;  and  us. 


150  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Should  he  be  favorable,  he  may  loose 
From  these  our  bonds." 

And  thus  It  came  to  pass, 
That  while  at  dead  of  night  the  old  dragon  lay 
Colled  in  the  cavern  where  he  dwelt,  the  watch 
Pacing  before  it  saw  in  middle  air 
A  boat,  that  gleamed  like  fire,  and  on  it  came. 
And  rocked  as  it  drew  neai',  and  then  it  burst 
And  went  to  pieces,  and  there  fell  therefrom, 
Close  at  the  cavern's  mouth,  two  glowing  balls. 

Now  there  was  drawn  a  curtain  nigh  the  mouth 

Of  that  deep  cave,  to  testify  of  wrath. 

The  dragon  had  been  wroth  with  some  that  served, 

And  chased  them  from  him ;  and  his  oracles. 

That  wont  to  drop  from  him,  were  stopped,  and  men 

Might  only  pray  to  him  tlirough  that  fell  web 

That  hung  before  him.     Then  did  whisper  low 

Some  of  the  little  spirits  that  bat-like  clung 

And  cluster'd  round  the  opening.     "  Lo,"  they  said, 

While  gazed  the  watch  upon  those  glowing  balls, 

"  These  are  like  moons  eclipsed  ;  but  let  them  lie 

Red  on  the  moss,  and  sear  its  dewy  spires. 

Until  our  lord  give  leave  to  draw  the  web. 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  151 

And  quicken  reverence  by  his  presence  dread, 
For  be  will  know  and  call  to  them  by  name, 
And  they  will  change.     At  present  he  is  sick, 
And  wills  that  none  disturb  him."     So  they  lay, 
And  there  was  silence,  for  the  forest  tribes 
Came  never  near  that  cave.     Wi?er  than  men. 
They  fled  the  serpent  hiss  that  oft  by  night 
Came  forth  of  it,  and  feared  the  wan  dusk  forms 
That  stalked  among  the  trees,  and  in  the  dark 
Those  whiffs  of  flame  that  wandered  up  the  sky 
And  made  the  moonlight  sickly. 

Now,  the  cave 
Was  marvellous  for  beauty,  wrought  with  tools 
Into  the  living  rock,  for  there  had  worked 
All  cunning  men,  to  cut  on  it  with  signs 
And  shows,  yea,  all  the  manner  of  mankind. 
The  fliteful  apple-tree  was  there,  a  bough 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  him  that  us  beguiled ; 
And  lilies  of  the  field  did  seem  to  blow 
And  bud  in  the  storied  stone.     There  Tubal  sat, 
Who  from  his  harp  delivered  music,  sweet 
As  any  in  the  spheres.     Yea,  more  ; 
Earth's  latest  wonder  on  the  walls  appeared, 
Unfinished,  workmen  clustering  on  its  ribs ; 


152  A   STOKY   OF    DOOM. 

And  farther  back,  within  the  rock  hewn  out, 
Angelic  figures  stood,  that  impious  hands 
Had  fashioned ;  many  golden  lamps  they  held 
By  golden  chains  depending,  and  their  eyes 
All  tended  in  a  reverent  quietude 
Toward  the  couch  whereon  the  dragon  lay. 
The  floor  was  beaten  gold ;  the  curly  lengths 
Of  his  last  colls  lay  on  it,  hid  from  sight 
With  a  coverlet  made  stiff  with  crusting  gems, 
Fire-opals  shooting,  rubies,  fierce  bright  eyes 
Of  diamonds,  or  the  pale  green  emerald. 
That  changed  their  lustre  when  he  breathed. 

His  head 
Feathered  with  crimson  combs,  and  all  his  neck, 
And  half-shut  fans  of  his  admired  wings, 
That  In  their  scaly  splendor  put  to  shame 
Or  gold  or  stone,  lay  on  his  ivory  couch 
And  shivered ;  for  the  dragon  suffered  pain  : 
He  suffered  and  he  feared.     It  was  his  doom, 
The  tempter,  that  he  never  should  depart 
From  the  bright  creature  that  in  Paradise 
He  for  his  evil  purpose  erst  possessed. 
Until  it  died.     Thus  only,  spirit  of  might 
And  cblefest  spirit  of  111,  could  he  be  free- 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  153 

But  with  its  nature  wed,  as  souls  of  men 
Are  wedded  to  their  clay,  he  took  the  dread 
Of  death  and  dying,  and  the  coward  heart 
Of  the  beast,  and  craven  terrors  of  the  end 
Sank  him  that  habited  within  it  to  dread 
Disunion.     He,  a  dark  dominion  erst 
Rebellious,  lay  and  trembled,  for  the  flesh 
Daunted  his  immaterial.     He  was  sick 
And  sorry.     Great  ones  of  the  earth  had  sent 
Their  chief  musicians  for  to  comfort  him, 
Ciianting  his  praise,  the  friend  of  man,  the  god 
That  gave  them  knowledge,  at  so  great  a  price 
And  costly.     Yea,  the  riches  of  the  mine, 
And  glorious  broidered  work,  and  woven  gold, 
And  all  things  wisely  made,  they  at  his  feet 
Laid  daily ;  for  thoy  said,  "  This  mighty  one, 
All  the  world  wonders  after  him.     He  lieth 
Sick  in  his  dwelling ;  he  hath  long  foregone 
(To  do  us  good)  dominion,  and  a  throne, 
AtuI  his  brave  warfare  with  the  Enemy, 
So  much  he  pitieth  us  that  were  denied 
The  gain  and  gladness  of  this  knowledge.     Now 
Shall  he  be  certified  of  gratitude. 
And  smell  the  sacrifice  that  most  he  loves." 


154  A    STOKY    OF    DOOM. 

The  night  was  dark,  but  every  lamp  gave  forth 
A  tender,  lustrous  beam.     His  beauteous  wings 
The  dragon  fluttered,  cursed  awhile,  then  turned 
And  moaned  with  lamentable  voice,  "  I  thirst. 
Give  me  to  drink."     Thereon  stepped  out  in  haste, 
From  inner  chambers,  lovely  ministrants. 
Young  hoys  with  radiant  locks  and  jseaceful  eyes, 
And  poured  out  liquor  from  their  cups  to  cool 
His  parched  tongue,  and  kneeling  held  it  nigh 
In  jewelled  basins  sparkling ;  and  he  lapped, 
And  was  appeased,  and  said,  "  I  will  not  hide 
Longer  my  much-desired  face  from  men. 
Draw  back  the  web  of  separation."     Then 
AV'ith  cries  of  gratulation  ran  they  forth, 
And  flung  it  wide,  and  all  the  watch  fell  low, 
Each  on  his  face,  as  drunk  with  sudden  joy. 
Thus  marked  he,  glowing  on  the  branched  moss, 
Tliose  red  rare  moons,  and  let  his  serpent  eyes 
Consider  them  full  subtly,  "  What  be  these  •?  " 
Iu(}uiring :  and  the  little  spirits  said, 
"  As  we  for  thy  protection  (having  heard 
That  wrathful  sons  of  darkness  walk  to-night, 
Such  as  do  oft  ill-use  us)  clustered  here. 
We  marked  a  boat  aflre,  that  sailed  the  skies. 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  153 

And  furrowed  up  like  spray  a  billowy  cloud, 
And,  lo,  it  went  to  pieces,  scattering  down 
A  rain  of  sparks  and  these  two  angry  moons." 
Then  said  the  dragon,  "  Let  my  guard,  and  you, 
Attendant  hosts,  recede  "  ;  and  they  went  back, 
And  formed  about  the  cave  a  widening  ring, 
Then,  halting,  stood  afar ;  and  from  the  cave 
The  snaky  wonder  spoke,  with  hissing  tongue, 
"  If  ye  were  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Be  Tartis  and  Deleisonon  once  more." 

Then  egg-like  cracked  the  glowing  balls,  and  forth 
Started  black  angels,  trampling  hard  to  free 
Their  fettered  feet  from  out  the  smoking  shell. 

And  he  said,  "  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 

Your  lord  I  am  :  draw  nigh."     "  Thou  art  our  lord," 

They  answered,  and  with  fettered  limbs  full  low 

They  bent,*  and  made  obeisance.     Furthermore, 

"  O  fiery  flying  serpent,  after  whom 

The  nations  go,  let  thy  dominion  last," 

They  said,  "forever."     And  the  serpent  said, 

"  It  shall :  unfold  your  errand."     They  replied, 

One  speaking  for  a  space,  and  afterwai-d 


156  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

His  fellow  taking  up  the  word  with  fear, 

And  panting,  "  We  were  set  to  watch  the  mouth 

Of  great  Methuselah.     There  came  to  him 

The  son  of  Lamech  two  days  since."     "  My  lord, 

They  prophesied,  the  Elder  prophesied. 

Unwitting,  of  the  flood  of  waters,  —  ay, 

A  vision  was  before  him,  and  the  lands 

Lay  under  water  drowned.     He  saw  the  ark,  — 

It  floated  in  the  Enemy's  right  hand." 

"  Lord  of  the  lost,  the  son  of  Lamech  fled 

Into  the  wilderness  to  meet  His  voice 

That  reigneth  ;  and  we,  diligent  to  hear 

Aught  that  might  serve  thee,  followed,  but,  forbid 

To  enter,  lay  upon  its  boundary  cliff*, 

And  wished  for  morning." 

"  When  the  dawn  was  red 
We  sought  the  man,  we  marked  him  ;  and  he  j)rayed,  — 
Kneeling,  he  ])rayed  in  the  valley,  and  he  said  —  " 
"  Nay,"  quoth  the  serpent,  "  spare  me,  what  devout 
He  fawning  grovelled  to  the  All-powerful ; 
But  if  of  what  shall  hap  he  aught  let  fall, 
Speak  that."     They  answered,  "  He  did  pray  as  one 
That  looketh  to  outlive  mankind,  —  and  more, 
We  are  certified  by  all  his  scattered  words, 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  157 

That  He  will  take  from  men  their  length  of  days, 
And  cut  them  off  like  grass  in  its  first  flower  : 
From  henceforth  this  shall  be." 

That  when  he  heard, 
The  dragon  made  to  the  night  his  moan. 

"  And  more," 
They  said,  "  that  He  above  would  have  men  know 
That  He  doth  love  them,  whoso  will  repent, 
To  that  man  He  is  favorable,  yea. 
Will  be  his  loving  Lord." 

The  dragon  cried, 
"  The  last  is  worse  than  all.     O  man,  thy  heart 
Is  stout  against  His  wrath.     But  will  He  love  ? 
I  heard  it  rumored  in  the  heavens  of  old, 
(And  doth  He  love  ?).     Thou  wilt  not,  canst  not,  stand 
Against  the  love  of  God.     Dominion  fails  ; 
I  see  it  float  from  me,  that  long  have  worn 
Fetters  of  flesh  to  win  it.     Love  of  God  ! 
I  cry  against  thee  ;  thou  art  worse  than  all." 
Tliey  answered,  "  Re  not  moved,  admired  chief 
And  trusted  of  mankind  "  ;  and  they  went  on, 
And  fed  him  with  the  prophecies  that  fell 
From  the  Master-shipwright  in  his  prayer. 

But  prone 


158  A   STOKY   OF    DOOM. 

He  lay,  for  he  was  sick  :  at  every  word 
ProjAetic  coAvering.     As  a  bruising  blow, 
It  fell  upon  his  head  and  daunted  him, 
Until  they  ended,  saying,  "  Prince,  behold, 
Thy  servants  have  revealed  the  whole." 

Thereon 
He  out  of  snaky  lips  did  hiss  forth  thanks. 
Then  said  he,  "  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Receive  your  wages."     So  their  fetters  fell ; 
And  they,  retiring,  lauded  him,  and  cried, 
*'  King,  reign  forever."     Tiien  he  mourned,  "Amen. 

And  he  —  being  left  alone  —  he  said  :  ''  A  light ! 

1  see  a  light,  —  a  star  among  the  ti'ces,  — 

An  angel."     And  it  drew  toward  the  cave, 

But  with  its  sacred  feet  touched  not  the  grass. 

Nor  lifted  up  the  lids  of  its  pure  eyes. 

But  hung  a  span's  length  from  that  ground  pollute. 

At  the  opening  of  the  cave. 

And  when  he  looked. 
The  dragon  cried,  "  Tliou  newly-fashioned  thing, 
Of  name  unknown,  thy  scorn  becomes  thee  not. 
Dotli  not  thy  Master  suffer  what  thine  eyes 
Thou  countest  all  too  clean  to  open  on  ?" 


A    STOKY    OK    DOOM.  159 

But  still  it  hovert'd,  and  tlie  quietness 
Ot"  holy  heaven  was  on  the  drooping  lids ; 
And  not  as  one  that  answereth,  it  let  full 
The  music  from  its  mouth,  but  like  to  one 
That  doth  not  hear,  or,  hearing,  doth  not  heed. 

"  A  message :  '  I  have  heard  thee,  while  remote 
I  went  My  rounds  among  the  imfinlshed  stars.' 
A  message  :  '  I  have  left  thee  to  thy  ways, 
And  mastered  all  thy  vileness,  for  thy  hate 
I  have  made  to  serve  the  ends  of  My  great  love. 
Hereafter  will  I  chain  thee  down.     To-day 
One  thing  thou  art  forbidden ;  now  thou  knovvest 
The  name  thereof:  I  told  it  thee  in  heaven, 
When  thou  wert  sitting  at  INIy  feet.     Forbear 
To  let  that  hidden  thing  be  whispered  forth  : 
For  man,  ungrateful  (and  thy  hope  it  was, 
That  so  ungrateful  he  nnght  prove),  would  scorn. 
And  not  believe  it,  adding  so  fresh  weight 
Of  condemnation  to  the  doomed  world. 
Concerning  that,  thou  art  forbid  to  speak  ; 
Know  thou  didst  count  it,  foiling  from  My  tongue, 
A  lovely  song,  whose  meaning  was  unknown. 
Unknowable,  unbearable  to  thought. 


160  A   STORY  OF    DOOM 

But  sweeter  In  the  hearing  than  all  harps 
Toned  in  My  holy  hollow.     Now  thine  eai-s 
Are  opened,  know  it,  and  discern  and  fear, 
Forbearing  speech  of  it  forevermore." 

So  said,  it  turned,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
As  one  released,  went  up :  and  it  was  dawn, 
And  all  boughs  dropped  with  dew,  and  out  of  mist 
Came  the  red  sun  and  looked  into  the  cave. 

But  the  dragon,  left  a-tremble,  called  to  him, 

From  the  nether  kingdom,  certain  of  his  fi-iends,  — 

Three  whom  he  trusted,  councillors  accursed. 

A  thunder-cloud  stooped  low  and  swathed  the  place 

In  its  black  swirls,  and  out  of  it  they  rushed. 

And  hid  them  in  recesses  of  the  cave. 

Because  they  could  not  look  upon  the  sun, 

Sith  light  is  pure.     And  Satan  called  to  them,  — 

All  in  the  dark,  in  his  great  rage  he  spake  : 

"  Up,"  (|uoth  the  dragon ;  "  it  is  time  to  work, 

Or  we  are  all  undone."     And  he  did  hiss. 

And  there  came  shudderings  over  land  and  trees, 

A  dimness  after  dawn.     The  earth  threw  out 

A  blinding  f()g,  tliat  crept  toward  the  cave, 

And  luUc'l  Ml)  blank  before  it  like  a  veil  — 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  161 

A  curtain  to  conceal  its  habiters. 
Then  did  those  spirits  move  upon  the  floor, 
Like  pillars  of  darkness,  and  with  eyes  aglow. 
One  had  a  helm  for  covering  of  the  scars 
That  seamed  what  rested  of  a  goodly  face  ; 
He  wore  his  vizor  up,  and  all  his  words 
"Were  hollower  than  an  echo  from  the  hills : 
He  was  hight  Make.     And  lo,  his  fellow-fiend 
Came  after,  holding  down  his  dastard  head, 
Like  one  ashamed  :  now  this  for  craft  was  great ; 
The  dragon  honored  him.     A  third  sat  down 
Among  them,  covering  with  his  wasted  hand 
Somewhat  that  pained  his  breast. 

And  when  the  fit 
Of  thunder,  and  the  sobbings  of  the  wind, 
Were  lulled,  the  dragon  spoke  with  -wrath  and  rage, 
And  told  them  of  his  matters  :  "  Look  to  this, 
If  ye  be  loyal  "  ;  adding,  "  Give  your  thoughts, 
And  let  me  have  your  counsel  in  this  need." 

One  spirit  rose  and  spake,  and  all  the  cave 

Was  full  of  sighs,  "  The  words  of  Make  the  Prince, 

Of  him  once  delegate  in  Betelgeux  : 

Whereas  of  late  the  manner  is  to  change, 


162  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

We  know  not  where  't  will  end ;  and  now  my  words 
Go  thus  :  give  way,  be  peaceable,  lie  still 
And  strive  not,  else  the  world  that  we  have  won 
He  may,  to  drive  us  out,  reduce  to  naught. 

"  For  while  T  stood  in  mine  obedience  yet, 
Steering  of  Betelgeux  my  sun,  behold, 
A  moon,  that  evil  ones  did  fill,  rolled  up 
Astray,  and  suddenly  the  Master  came, 
And  while,  a  million  strong,  like  rooks  they  rose, 
lie  took  and  broke  it,  flinig  it  here  and  there. 
And  called  a  blast  to  drive  the  jjowder  forth  ; 
And  it  was  fine  as  dust,  and  blurred  the  skies 
Farther  than  't  is  from  hence  to  this  young  sun. 
Spirits  that  passed  upon  their  work  that  day. 
Cried  out,  "  How  dusty  't  is."     Behooves  us,  then, 
That  we  depart,  as  leaving  unto  Him 
This  goodly  world  and  goodly  race  of  man. 
Not  all  are  doomed  :  hereafter  it  maj'  be 
That  we  find  ])lacc  on  it  again.     But  if, 
Too  zealous  to  preserve  it,  and  the  men 
Our  servants,  we  oppose  Him,  He  may  come. 
And,  choosing  rather  to  undo  His  work 
Than  strive  with  it  for  aye,  make  so  an  end." 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  163 

He  sighing  paused.     Lo,  then  the  serpent  hissed 

In  impotent  rage,  "  Depart !  and  how  depart ! 

Can  flesh  be  carried  down  where  spirits  wonn  ? 

Or  I,  most  miserable,  hold  my  life 

Over  the  airless,  bottomless  gulf,  and  bide 

The  buffetings  of  yonder  shoreless  sea  ? 

O  death,  thou  terrible  doom  :  O  death,  thou  dread 

Of  all  that  breathe." 

A  spirit  rose  and  spake  : 
"  Whereas  in  Heaven  is  power,  is  much  to  fear ; 
For  this  admired  country  we  have  marred. 
Whereas  in  Heaven  is  love  (and  there  are  days 
When  yet  I  can  recall  what  love  was  like). 
Is  naught  to  fear.     A  threatening  makes  the  whole. 
And  clogged  with  strong  conditions :  '  O,  repent, 
Man,  and  I  turn.'     He,  therefore,  powerful  now. 
And  more  so,  master,  that  ye  bide  in  clay, 
Threateneth  that  He  may  save.     They  shall  not  die." 

The  dragon  said,  "  I  tremble,  T  am  sick." 
He  said  with  pain  of  heart,  "  How  am  I  fallen  ! 
For  I  keep  silence  ;  yea,  I  have  withdrawn 
From  haunting  of  His  gates,  and  shouting  up 
Defiance.     Wherefore  doth  He  hunt  me  out 


164  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

From  this  small  world,  this  little  one,  that  I 

Have  been  content  to  take  unto  myself, 

I  here  being  loved  and  worshipped  ?     He  knoweth 

How  much  I  have  foregone  ;  and  must  He  stoop 

To  whelm  the  world,  and  heave  the  floors  o'  the  deep, 

Of  purpose  to  pursue  me  from  my  place  ? 

And  since  I  gave  men  knowledge,  must  He  take 

Their  length  of  days  whereby  they  perfect  it  ? 

So  shall  He  scatter  all  that  I  have  stored. 

And  get  them  by  degrading  them.     I  know 

That  in  the  end  it  is  appointed  me 

To  fade.     I  will  not  fade  before  the  time." 

A  spirit  rose,  the  third,  a  spirit  ashamed 

And  subtle,  and  his  flice  he  turned  aside  : 

"  Whereas,"  said  he,  "  we  strive  against  both  power 

And  love,  behooves  us  that  we  strive  aright. 

Now  some  of  old  my  comrades  yesterday 

I  met,  as  they  did  journey  to  appear 

In  the  Presence ;  and  I  said,  '  My  master  lieth 

Sick  yonder,  otherwise  (for  no  decree 

There  stands  against  it)  he  would  also  come 

And  make  obeisance  with  the  sons  of  God.' 

They  answered,  naught  denying.     Therefore,  lord, 


A   STOr.Y   OF   DOOM.  165 

*T  is  certain  that  ye  have  admittance  yet ; 
And  wliat  doth  hinder  ?     Nothing  but  this  breath. 
Were  it  not  well  to  make  an  end,  and  die, 
And  gain  admittance  to  the  King  of  kings  ? 
What  it'  thy  slaves  by  thy  consent  should  take 
And  bear  thee  on  their  wings  above  the  earth, 
And  suddenly  lot  fall,  —  how  soon  't  were  o'er  ! 
We  should  have  fear  and  sinking  at  the  heart ; 
But  in  a  little  moment  Ave  should  see. 
Rising  majestic  from  a  ruined  heap,      . 
The  stately  spirit  that  we  served  of  yore." 

The  serpent  turned  his  subtle  deadly  eyes 

Upon  the  spirit,  and  hissed ;  and,  sick  with  shame, 

It  bowed  itself  together,  and  went  back 

With  hidden  face,     "  This  counsel  is  not  good," 

The  other  twain  made  answer;  "  look,  my  lord, 

T\1iereas  't  is  evil  in  thine  eyes,  in  ours 

'T  is  evil  also  ;  speak,  for  we  perceive 

That  on  thy  tongue  the  words  of  counsel  sit, 

Ready  to  fly  to  our  right  greedy  ears, 

That  long  for  them."     And  Satan,  flattered  thus 

(For  ever  may  the  serpent  kind  be  charmed 

With  soft,  sweet  words,  and  music  deftly  played), 


166  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Replied,  "  Whereas  I  surely  rule  the  world, 

Behooves  that  ye  prepare  for  me  a  path, 

And  that  I,  putting  of  my  pains  aside. 

Go  stir  rebellion  in  the  mighty  hearts 

O'  the  giants  ;  for  He  loveth  them,  and  looks 

Full  oft  complacent  on  their  glorious  strength. 

He  willcth  that  thej-^  yield,  that  He  may  spare ; 

But,  by  the  blackness  of  my  loathed  den, 

I  say  they  shall  not,  no,  they  shall  not  yield ; 

Go,  therefore,  take  to  you  some  harmless  guise, 

And  spread  a  rumor  that  I  come.     I,  sick, 

Sorry,  and  aged,  hasten.     I  have  heard 

Whispers  that  out  of  heaven  dropped  unaware. 

I  caught  them  up,  and  sith  they  bode  men  harm, 

I  am  ready  for  to  couifort  them ;  j'ea,  more. 

To  counsel,  and  I  will  that  they  drive  forth 

The  women,  the  abhorred  of  my  soul ; 

Let  not  a  woman  breathe  where  I  shall  pass, 

Lest  the  curse  falleth,  and  she  bruise  my  head. 

Friends,  if  it  be  their  mind  to  send  for  me 

An  army,  and  triumphant  draw  me  on 

In  the  golden  car  you  wot  of,  and  with  shouts, 

I  would  not  that  ye  hinder  them.     Ah,  then 

Will  I  make  hard  their  hearts,  and  grieve  Him  sore 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  167 

That  loves  them,  O,  by  much  too  well  to  wet 
Their  stately  heads,  and  soil  those  locks  of  strength 
Under  the  fateful  brine.     Then  afterward, 
"^^'^^ile  He  doth  reason  vainly  with  thum,  I 
Will  oiler  Him  a  pact :  '  Great  King,  a  pact, 
And  men  shall  worship  Thee,  I  say  they  shall, 
For  I  will  bid  them  do  it,  yea,  and  leave 
To  sacrifice  their  kind,  so  Thou  my  name 
Wilt  suffer  to  be  woi-shipped  after  Thine.'  " 

"  Yea,  my  lord  Satan,"  quoth  they,  "  do  this  thing, 
And  let  us  hear  thy  words,  for  they  are  sweet." 

Then  he  made  answer,  "  By  a  messenger 

Have  I  this  day  been  warned.     There  is  a  deed 

I  may  not  tell  of,  lest  the  people  add 

Scorn  of  a  Coming  Greatness  to  their  faults. 

Why  this?     Who  careth,  when  about  to  slay,* 

And  slay  indeed,  how  well  they  have  deserved 

Death  whom  he  slayeth  ?     Therefore  yet  is  hid 

A  meaning  of  some  mercy  that  will  rob 

The  nether  world.     Now  look  to  it,  —  'T  were  vain, 

Albeit  this  deluge  He  would  send  indeed, 

That  we  expect  the  harvest ;  He  would  yet 


168  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Be  the  Master-reaper ;  for  I  heard  it  said, 

Them  that  be  young  and  know  Him  not,  and  them 

That  are  bound  and  may  not  build,  yea,  more,  their 

wives, 
Whom,  suffering  not  to  hear  the  doom,  they  keep 
Joyous  behind  the  curtains,  every  one 
With  maidens  nourished  in  the  house,  and  babes 
And  children  at  her  knees  —  (then  what  remain  !) 
Pie  claimeth  and  will  gather  for  His  own. 
Now,  therefore,  it  were  good  by  guile  to  work. 
Princes,  and  suffer  not  the  doom  to  fall. 
There  is  no  evil  like  to  love.     I  heai-d 
Him  whisper  it.     Have  I  put  on  this  flesh 
To  ruin  His  two  children  beautiful. 
And  shall  my  deed  confound  me  in  the  end, 
Through  awful  imitation  ?     Love  of  God, 
I  cry  against  thee ;  thou  art  worst  of  all." 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  169 


BOOK    IV, 


Now  while  these  evil  ones  took  counsel  strange, 
The  son  of  Lamech  journeyed  home  ;  and,  lo ! 
A  company  came  down,  and  struck  the  track 
As  he  did  enter  it.     There  rode  in  front 
Two  horsemen,  young  and  noble,  and  behind 
"Were  following  slaves  with  tent  gear ;  others  led 
Strong  horses,  others  bare  the  instruments 
O'  the  chase,  and  in  the  rear  dull  camels  lagged, 
Sighing,  for  they  were  burdened,  and  they  loved 
The  desert  sands  above  that  grassy  vale. 

And  as  they  met,  those  horsemen  drew  the  rein, 

And  fixed  on  him  their  grave  untroubled  eyes ; 

He  in  his  regal  grandeur  walked  alone. 

And  had  nor  steed  nor  follower,  and  his  mien 

Was  grave  and  like  to  tlieirs.     He  said  to  them, 

"  Fair  sirs,  whose  are  ye  ?  "     They  made  answer  cold, 

"  The  beautiful  woman,  sir,  our  mother  dear, 

Niloiya,  bare  us  to  great  Lamech's  son." 

And  he,  replying,  "  I  am  he."     They  said, 


170  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

"  We  know  itj  sir.     We  have  remembered  you 
Through  many  seasons.     Pray  you  let  us  not ; 
We  fain  would  greet  our  mother."     And  they  made 
Obeisance  and  passed  on  ;  then  all  their  train, 
Which  while  they  spoke  had  halted,  moved  apace, 
And,  while  the  silent  father  stood,  went  by, 
He  gazing  after,  as  a  man  that  dreams ; 
For  he  was  sick  with  their  cold,  quiet  scorn, 
That  seemed  to  say,  "  Father,  we  own  you  not, 
We  love  you  not,  for  you  have  left  us  long, — 
S9  long,  we  care  not  that  you  come  again." 

And  while  the  sullen  camels  moved,  he  spake 

To  him  that  led  the  last,  "  There  are  but  two 

Of  these  my  sons  ;  but  where  doth  Japhet  ride  ? 

For  I  would  see  him."     And  the  leader  said, 

"  Sir,  ye  shall  find  him,  if  ye  follow  up 

Along  the  track.     Afore  the  noonday  meal 

The  young  men,  even  our  masters,  bathed  ;  (there  grows 

A  clump  of  cedars  by  the  bend  of  yon 

Clear  river)  —  there  did  Japhet,  after  meat, 

Being  right  weary,  lay  him  down  and  sleep. 

There,  witli  a  company  of  slaves  and  some 

Few  camels,  ye  shall  find  him.". 


A   STOKY   OF    DOOM.  171 

And  the  man. 
The  father  of  these  three,  did  let  liim  pass, 
And  struggle  and  give  battle  to  his  heart. 
Standing  as  motionless  as  pillar  set 
To  guide  a  wanderer  in  a  pathless  waste 
But  all  his  strength  went  from  him,  and  he  strove 
Vainly  to  trample  out  and  trample  down 
The  misery  of  his  love  unsatisfied,  — 
Unutterable  love  flung  in  his  face. 

Then  he  broke  out  in  passionate  words,  that  cried 
Against  his  lot  :  "  I  have  lost  my  own,  and  won 
None  other  ;  no,  not  one  !     Alas,  my  sons  ! 
That  I  have  looked  to  for  my  solacing, 
In  the  bitterness  to  come.     My  children  dear  !  " 
And  when  from  his  own  lips  he  heard  those  words, 
With  passionate  stirring  of  the  heart,  he  wept. 

And  none  came  near  to  comfort  him.     His  face 
Was  on  the  ground  ;  but  having  wept,  he  rose 
Full  hastily,  and  urged  his  way  to  find 
The  river ;  and  in  hollow  of  his  hand 
Raised  up  the  water  to  his  brow  :  "  This  son. 
This  other  son  of  mine,"-  he  said,  "  shall  see 


172  A    STOllY   OF    DOOM. 

No  tears  upon  my  face."     And  he  looked  on, 

Beheld  the  camels,  and  a  group  of  slaves 

Sitting  apart  from  some  one  fast  asleep, 

Where  they  had  spread  out  webs  of  broidery  work 

Under  a  cedar-tree  ;  and  he  came  on, 

And  when  they  made  obeisance  he  declared 

His  name,  and  said,  "  I  will  beside  my  son 

Sit  till  he  wakeneth."     So  Jajihet  lay 

A-dreammg,  and  his  father  drew  to  him. 

He  said,  "  This  cannot  scorn  me  yet " ;  and  paused, 

Right  angry  with  himself,  because  the  youth, 

Albeit  of  stately  growth,  so  languidly 

Lay  with  a  listless  smile  upon  his  mouth. 

That  was  full  sweet  and  pure  ;  and  as  he  looked, 

He  half  forgot  his  trouble  in  his  pride. 

"  And  is  this  mine  ?  "  said  he,  "  my  son !  mine  own  ! 

(God,  thou  art  good  !)     O,  if  this  turn  away. 

That  pang  shall  be  jiast  bearing.     I  must  think 

That  all  the  sweetness  of  his  goodly  face 

Is  copied  from  his  soul.     How  beautiful 

Are  children  to  their  fathers  !     Son,  my  heart 

Is  greatly  glad  because  of  thee ;  my  life 

Shall  lack  of  no  completeness  in  the  days 

To  come.     If  I  forget  the  joy  of  youth, 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  173 

In  thee  shall  I  be  comforted  ;  ay,  see 
My  youth,  a  dearex'  than  my  own  again." 

And  when  he  ceased,  the  youth,  with  sleep  content, 
Murmured  a  little,  turned  himself,  and  woke. 

He  woke,  and  opened  on  his  father's  face 

The  darkness  of  his  eyes ;  but  not  a  word 

The  Master-shipwright  said,  —  his  lips  were  sealed  ; 

He  was  not  ready,  for  he  feared  to  see 

This  mouth  curl  up  with  scorn.     And  Japhet  spoke, 

Full  of  the  calm  that  cometh  after  sleep  : 

"  Sir,  I  have  dreamed  of  you.     I  pray  you,  sir, 

What  is  your  name  ?  "  and  even  with  his  words 

His  countenance  changed.     The  son  of  Lamech  said, 

"  Why  art  thou  sad  ?     What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?  " 

And  Japhet  answered,  "  O,  methought  I  fled 

In  the  wilderness  before  a  maddened  beast. 

And  you  came  up  and  slew  it ;  and  I  thought 

You  were  my  father ;  but  I  fear  me,  sir. 

My  thoughts  were  vain."     With  that  his  father  said, 

"  Whate'er  of  blessing  Thou  reserv'st  for  me, 

God !  if  Thou  wilt  not  give  to  both,  give  here  : 

Bless  him  with  both  Thy  hands  "  ;  and  laid  his  own 

On  Japhet's  head. 


174  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Then  Japhet  looked  on  him, 
Made  quiet  by  content,  and  answered  low, 
With  faltering  laughter,  glad  and  reverent  :  "  Sir, 
You  are  my  father  ?  "     "  Ay,"  quoth  he,  "  I  am  ! 
Kiss  me,  my  son  ;  and  let  me  hear  my  name, 
My  much  desired  name,  from  your  dear  lips." 

Then  after,  rested,  they  betook  them  home  : 

And  Japhet,  walking  by  the  Master,  thought, 

"  I  did  not  will  to  love  this  sire  of  mine  ; 

But  now  I  feel  as  if  I  had  always  known 

And  loved  him  well ;  truly,  I  see  not  why. 

But  I  would  rather  serve  him  than  go  free 

With  my  two  brethren."     And  he  said  to  him, 

"  Father  !  "  —  who  answered,  "  I  am  here,  my  son." 

And  Japhet  said,  "  I  pray  you,  sir,  attend 

To  this  my  answer  :  let  me  go  with  you, 

For,  now  I  think  on  it,  I  do  not  love 

The  chase,  nor  managing  the  steed,  nor  yet 

The  arrows  and  the  bow  ;  but  rather  you. 

For  all  you  do  and  say,  and  you  yourself. 

Are  goodly  and  delightsome  in  mine  eyes. 

I  pray  you,  sir,  when  you  go  forth  again, 

Tliat  I  may  also  go."     And  he  replied, 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  175 

''  I  will  tell  thy  speech  unto  the  Highest ;  He 
Shall  answer  it.     But  I  would  speak  to  thee 
Now  of  tlie  days  to  come.     Know  thou,  most  dear 
To  this  thy  father,  that  the  drenched  world, 
When  risen  clean  washed  from  water,  shall  receive 
From  thee  her  lordliest  governors,  from  thee 
Daughters  of  noblest  soul." 

So  Japhct  said, 
"  Sir,  I  am  young,  but  of  my  mother  straight 
I  will  go  ask  a  wife,  that  this  may  be. 
I  pray  you,  therefore,  as  the  manner  is 
Of  fathers,  give  me  land  that  I  may  reap 
Corn  for  sustaining  of  my  wife,  and  bruise 
The  fruit  of  the  vine  to  cheer  her."     But  he  said, 
"  Dost  thou  forget  ?  or  dost  thou  not  believe, 
My  son?  "     He  answered,  "  I  did  ne'er  believe, 
My  father,  ere  to-flay  ;  but  now,  methinks. 
Whatever  thou  believest  I  believe. 
For  thy  beloved  sake.     If  this  then  be 
As  thou  (I  hear)  hast  said,  and  earth  doth  bear 
The  last  of  her  wheat  harvests,  and  make  ripe 
The  latest  of  her  grapes  ;  yet  hear  me,  sir. 
None  of  the  daughtei-s  shall  be  given  to  me 
If  I  be  landless."     Theh  his  father  said, 


176  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

"  Lift  up  thine  eyes  toward  the  north,  my  son  :  " 
And  so  he  did.     "  Behold  thy  heritage  !  " 
Quoth  the  world's  prince  and  master,  "  far  away 
Upon  the  side  o'  the  north,  where  green  the  field 
Lies  every  season  through,  and  where  the  dews 
Of  heaven  are  wholesome,  shall  thy  children  reign  ; 
I  part  it  to  them,  for  the  earth  is  mine  ; 
The  Highest  gave  it  me  :  I  make  it  theirs. 
^Ioreover,  for  thy  marriage  gift,  behold 
The  cedars  where  thou  sleepedst !     There  are  vines ; 
A.nd  up  the  rise  is  growing  wheat.     I  give 
(For  all,  alas !  is  mine)  —  I  give  thee  both 
i'or  dowry,  and  my  blessing." 

And  he  said, 
''  Sir  you  are  good,  and  therefore  the  Most  High 
Shall  bless  me  also.     Sir,  I  love  you  well." 


I 
I 


I 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  177 


BOOK     V. 


AxD  when  two  clays  were  over,  Japhet  said, 

"  Mother,  so  please  you,  get  a  wife  for  me." 

The  mother  answered,  "  Dost  thou  mock  me,  son  ? 

'Tis  not  the  manner  of  our  kin  to  wed 

So  young.     Tliou  knowest  it ;  art  thou  not  ashamed  ? 

Thou  carest  not  for  a  wife."     And  the  youth  blushed, 

And  made  for  answer  :  "  This,  my  father,  saith  • 

The  doom  is  nigh  ;  now  therefore  find  a  maid, 

Or  else  shall  I  be  wifeless  all  my  days. 

And  as  for  me,  I  care  not ;  but  the  lands 

Are  parted,  and  the  goodliest  share  is  mine. 

And  lo !  my  brethren  are  betrothed ;  their  maids 

Are  with  thee  in  the  house.     Then  why  not  mine  ? 

Didst  thou  not  diligently  search  for  these 

Among  the  noblest  bom  of  all  the  earth, 

And  bring  them  up  ?     My  sisters,  dwell  they  not 

With  women  that  bespake  them  for  their  sons  ? 

Now,  therefore,  let  a  wife  be  found  for  me. 

Fair  as  the  day,  and  gentle  to  my  will 

As  thou  art  to  my  father's.  "     When  she  heard, 


178  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Niloiya  sighed,  and  answered,  "  It  is  well." 
And  Japhet  went  out  from  her  presence. 

Then 
Quoth  the  great  Master :  "  Wherefore  sought  ye  not, 
Woman,  these  many  days,  nor  tired  at  all, 
Till  ye  had  found,  a  maiden  for  ni}'  son  ? 
In  this  ye  have  done  ill."     Niloiya  said  : 
"  Let  not  my  lord  be  angry.     All  my  soul 
Is  sad :  my  lord  hatli  walked  afar  so  long, 
That  some  despise  thee  ;  yea,  our  servants  fail 
Lately  to  bring  their  stint  of  corn  and  wood. 
And,  sir,  thy  household  slaves  do  steal  away 
To  thy  great  father,  and  our  lands  lie  waste,  — 
None  till  them :  therefore  think  the  women  scorn 
To  give  me  —  whatsoever  gems  I  send, 
And  goodly  raiment  (yea,  I  seek  afar. 
And  sue  with  all  desire  and  humbleness 
Through  every  master's  house,  but  no  one  gives)  — 
A  daughter  for  my  son."     With  that  she  ceased. 

Then  said  the  Master  :  "  Some  thou  hast  with  thee. 
Brought  up  among  thy  children,  dutiful 
And  fair  ;  thy  father  gave  them  for  my  slaves, — 
Children  of  them  whom  he  brought  captive  forth 


A    STOKY   OF    DOOM.  179 

From  their  own  heritage."     And  she  replied, 

Right  scornfully  :  "  Shall  Japhet  wed  a  slave  ?  " 

Then  said  the  Master :  "  He  shall  wed  :  look  thou 

To  that.     I  say  not  he  shall  wed  a  slave  ; 

But,  by  the  might  of  One  that  made  him  mine, 

I  will  not  quit  thee  for  my  doomed  way 

Until  thou  wilt  betroth  him.     Therefore,  haste, 

Beautiful  woman,  loved  of  me  and  mine. 

To  bring  a  maiden,  and  to  say,  '  Behold 

A  wife  for  JapheL' "     Then  she  answered,  "  Sir, 

It  shall  be  done. " 

And  forth  Niloiya  sped. 
She  gathered  all  her  jewels,  —  all  she  held 
Of  costly  or  of  rich,  —  and  went  and  spake 
With  some  few  slaves  that  yet  abode  with  her. 
For  daily  they  were  fewer ;  and  went  forth, 
With  fair  and  flattering  words,  among  her  feres. 
And  fain  had  wrought  with  them :  and  she  had  hope 
That  made  her  sick.  It  was  so  faint ;  and  then 
She  had  fear,  and  after  she  had  certainty, 
For  all  did  scorn  her.     "  Nay,"  they  cried,  "  O  fool ! 
If  this  be  so,  and  on  a  watery  world 
Ye  think  to  rock,  what  matters  if  a  wife 
Be  free  or  bond  ?     There  shall  be  none  to  rule. 


180  A    STORY    OF    DOOM. 

If  she  have  freedom:  if  she  have  it  not, 
None  shall  there  be  to  serve." 

And  she  alit, 
The  time  being  done,  desponding  at  her  door, 
And  went  behind  a  screen,  where  should  have  wrought 
The  daughters  of  the  captives  ;  but  there  wrought 
One  only,  and  this  rose  from  off  the  floor, 
Where  she  the  river  rush  full  deftly  wove. 
And  made  obeisance.     Then  Niloiya  said, 
"  Where  are  thy  fellows  ?  "     And  the  maid  replied, 
"  Let  not  Niloiya,  this  my  lady  loved, 
Be  angry  ;  they  are  fled  since  yesternight." 
Then  said  Niloiya,  "  Amarant,  my  slave, 
When  have  I  called  thee  by  thy  name  before  ?  " 
She  answered,  "  Lady,  never  "  ;  and  she  took 
And  spread  her  broidered  robe  before  her  face. 
Niloiya  spoke  thus :  "  I  am  come  to  woe, 
And  thou  to  honor."     Saying  this,  she  wept 
Passionate  tears  ;  and  all  the  damsel's  soul 
Was  full  of  yearning  wonder,  and  her  robe 
Slipped  from  her  hand,  and  her  right  innocent  face 
Was  seen  betwixt  her  locks  of  tawny  hair 
That  droj)ped  about  her  knees,  and  her  two  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  much-loved  flower  that  rims  the  beck. 


A    STORY    OV    DOOM.  181 

Looked  sweetly  on  Niloiya  ;  but  she  knew 

No  meaning  In  ]^er  words ;  and  she  drew  nigh, 

And  kneeled  and  said,  "  Will  this  my  lady  speak  ? 

Her  damsel  is  desirous  of  her  words." 

Then  said  Niloiya,  "  I,  thy  mistress,  sought 

A  wife  for  Japhet,  and  no  wife  is  found." 

And  yet  again  she  wept  with  grief  of  heart, 

Saying,  "  Ah  me,  miserable  !  I  must  give 

A  wife,  —  the  Master  willeth  it,  —  a  wife, 

Ah  me  !  unto  the  high-born.     He  will  scorn 

His  mother  and  reproach  me.     I  must  give  — 

None  else  have  I  to  give  —  a  slave  —  even  thee." 

This  further  spake  Niloiya  :  "  I  was  good,  — 

Had  rue  on  thee,  a  tender  sucking  child. 

When  they  did  tear  thee  from  thy  mother's  breast ; 

I  fed  thee,  gave  thee  shelter,  and  I  taught 

Thy  hands  all  cunning  arts  that  women  prize. 

But  out  on  me  !  my  good  is  turned  to  ill. 

O  Japhet,  well  beloved  !  "     And  she  rose  up. 

And  did  restrain  herself,  saying,  "  Dost  thou  heed  ? 

Behold,  this  thing  shall  be."     The  damsel  sighed, 

"  Lady,  I  do."     Then  went  Niloiya  forth. 

And  Amarant  murmured  in  her  deep  amaze. 


182  A    STORY   OF    BOOM. 

"  Shall  Japhet's  little  children  kiss  my  mouth  ? 
And  will  he  sometimes  take  them  from  my  arms, 
And  almost  care  for  me  for  their  sweet  sake  ? 
I  have  not  dared  to  think  I  loved  him,  —  now 
I  know  it  well :  but  O,  the  bitterness 
For  him  !  "     And  ending  thus,  the  damsel  rose, 
For  Japhet  entered.     And  she  bowed  herself 
Meekly  and  made  obeisance,  but  her  blood 
Ran  cold  about  her  heart,  for  all  his  face 
Was  colored  with  his  passion. 

Japhet  spoke : 
He  said,  "  My  flxther's  slave  "  ;  and  she  replied, 
Low  drooping  her  foir  head,  "  INIy  master's  son." 
And  after  that  a  silence  fell  on  them. 
With  trembling  at  her  heart,  and  rage  at  his. 
And  Japhet,  mastered  of  his  passion,  sat 
And  could  not  speak.     O,  cruel  seemed  his  fate,  — 
So  cruel  her  that  told  it,  so  unkind. 
His  breast  was  full  of  wounded  love  and  wrath 
Wrestling  together ;  and  his  eyes  flashed  out 
Indignant  lights,  as  all  amazed  he  took 
The  insult  home  that  she  had  oifered  him, 
Who  should  have  held  his  honor  dear. 

And,  lo, 


A    STORY    OF    DOOM.  183 

The  misery  choked  him,  ami  he  cried  in  pain, 
"  Go,  get  thee  forth  "  ;  but  she,  all  white  and  still, 
Parted  her  lips  to  speak,  and  yet  spake  not, 
Nor  moved.     And  Japhet  rose  up  passionate, 
With  lifted  arm  as  one  about  to  strike  ; 
But  she  cried  out  and  met  him,  and  she  held 
With  desperate  might  his  hand,  and  prayed  to  him, 
'  Strike  not,  or  else  shall  men  from  henceforth  say, 
■  Japhet  is  like  to  us.'  "     And  he  shook  off 
The  damsel,  and  he  said,  "  I  thank  thee,  slave  ; 
For  never  have  I  stricken  yet  or  child 
Or  woman.     Not  for  thy  sake  am  I  glad. 
Nay,  hut  for  mine.     Get  hence.     Obey  my  words." 
Then  Japhet  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  wept. 

And  no  more  he  restrained  himself,  but  cried. 
With  heavlngs  of  the  heart,  "  O  hateful  day  ! 
O  day  that  shuts  the  door  upon  delight ! 
A  slave  !  to  wed  a  slave  !     O  loathed  wife, 
Hated  of  Japhet's  soul."     And  after,  long. 
With  face  between  his  hands,  he  sat,  his  thoughts 
Sullen  and  sore  ;  then  scorned  himself,  and  saying, 
"  I  will  not  take  her,  I  will  die  unwed. 
It  is  but  that  " ;  lift  up  his  eyes  and  saw 


184  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

The  slave,  and  she  was  sitting  at  his  feet ; 
And  he,  so  greatly  wondering  that  she  dared 
The  disobedience,  looked  her  in  the  face 
Less  angry  than  afraid,  for  pale  she  was 
As  lily  yet  unsmiled  on  by  the  sun  ; 
And  he,  his  passion  being  spent,  sighed  out, 
"  Low  am  I  fallen  indeed.     Hast  thou  no  fear, 
That  thou  dost  flout  me  ?  "  but  she  gave  to  him 
The  sighing  echo  of  his  sigh,  and  mourned, 
"  No." 

And  he  wondered,  and  he  looked  again, 
For  in  her  heart  there  was  a  new-born  pang, 
That  cried  ;  but  she,  as  mothers  with  their  young. 
Suffered,  yet  loved  it ;  and  there  shone  a  strange 
Grave  sweetness  in  her  blue  unsullied  eyes. 
And  Japhet,  leaning  from  the  settle,  thought, 
"  What  is  it  ?     I  will  call  her  by  her  name, 
To  comfort  her,  for  also  she  is  naught 
To  blame  ;  and  since  I  will  not  her  to  wife. 
She  falls  back  from  the  freedom  she  had  hoped." 
Then  he  said,  "  Amarant "  ;  and  the  damsel  drew 
Iler  eyes  down  slowly  from  the  shaded  sky 
Of  even,  and  she  said,  "  My  master's  son, 
Japhet "  ;  and  Japhet  said,  "  I  am  not  wroth 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  185 

With  thee,  but  wretched  for  my  mother's  deed, 
Because  she  shamed  me." 

And  the  maiden  said, 
"  Doth  not  thy  father  love  thee  well,  sweet  sir  ?  " 
"  Ay,"  quoth  he,  "  well."     She  answered,  "  Let  the  heart 
Of  Japhet,  then,  be  merry.     Go  to  him 
And  say,  '  The  damsel  whom  my  mother  chose 
Sits  by  her  in  the  house  ;  but  as  for  me. 
Sir,  ere  I  take  her,  let  me  go  with  you 
To  that  same  outland  country.     Also,  sir, 
My  damsel  hath  not  worked  as  yet  the  robe 
Of  her  betrothal ' ;  now,  then,  sith  he  loves, 
He  will  not  say  thee  nay.     Herein  for  a  while 
Is  respite,  and  thy  mother  far  and  near 
Will  seek  again  :  it  may  be  she  will  find 
A  fair,  free  maiden." 

Japhet  said,  "  O  maid, 
Sweet  are  thy  words ;  but  what  if  I  return, 
And  all  again  be  as  It  is  to-da}-  ?  " 
Then  Amarant  answered,  ''  Some  have  died  in  youth ; 
But  yet,  I  think  not,  sir,  that  I  shall  die. 
Though  ye  shall  find  it  even  as  I  had  died, — 
Silent,  for  any  words  I  miijjht  have  said ; 
Empty,  for  any  space  I  might  have  filled. 


186  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Sir,  I  will  steal  away,  and  hide  afar  ; 

But  if  a  wife  be  found,  then  will  I  bide 

And  serve."     He  answered,  "  O,  thy  speech  is  good  ; 

Now,  therefore  (since  my  mother  gave  me  thee), 

I  will  reward  it ;  I  will  find  for  thee 

A  goodly  husband,  and  will  make  him  free 

Thee  also." 

Then  she  started  from  his  feet, 
And,  red  with  shame  and  anger,  flashed  on  him 
The  passion  of  her  eyes ;  and  put  her  hands 
With  catching  of  the  breath  to  her  fair  throat, 
And  stood  in  her  defiance  lost  to  fear, 
Like  some  fair  hind  in  desperate  danger  turned 
And  brought  to  bay,  and  wild  in  her  despair. 
But  shortly,  "  I  remember,"  quoth  she,  low, 
With  raining  down  of  tears  and  broken  sighs, 
"  That  I  am  Japhet's  slave  ;  "  beseech  yon,  sir, 
As  ye  were  ever  gentle,  ay,  and  sweet 
Of  language  to  me,  be  not  harder  now. 
Sir,  I  was  yours  to  take  ;  T  knew  not,  sir, 
That  also  ye  miglit  give  me.     Pray  you,  sir, 
Be  pitiful,  —  be  merciful  to  me, 
A  slave."     He  said,  "  I  thouglit  to  do  thee  good. 
For  good  hath  been  thy  counsel  " ;  but  she  cried. 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  187 

"  Good  master,  be  you  therefore  pitiful 

To  me,  a  slave."     And  Japhet  wondered  much 

At  her,  and  at  her  beauty,  for  he  thought, 

"  None  of  the  daughters  are  so  fair  as  this, 

Nor  stand  with  such  a  grace  majestical ; 

She  in  her  locks  is  like  the  travelling  sun. 

Setting,  all  clad  in  coifing  clouds  of  gold. 

And  would  she  die  unmatched  ?  "     lie  said  to  her, 

"  What !  wilt  thou  sail  alone  in  yonder  ship. 

And  dwell  alone  hereafter  ?  "     "  Ay,"  she  said, 

"  And  serve  my  mistress." 

"  It  is  well,"  quoth  he, 
And  held  his  hand  to  her,  as  is  the  way 
Of  masters.     Then  she  kissed  it,  and  she  said, 
"  Thanks  for  benevolence,"  and  turned  herself, 
Adding,  "  I  rest,  sir,  on  your  gracious  words  ""; 
Then  stepped  into  the  twilight  and  was  gone. 

And  Japhet,  having  found  his  father,  said, 

"  Sir,  let  me  also  journey  when  ye  go." 

Who  answered,  "  Hath  thy  mother  done  her  part  ?  " 

He  said,  "  Yea,  truly,  and  my  damsel  sits 

Before  her  in  the  house  ;  and  also,  sir, 

She  said  to  me,  '  I  have  not  worked,  as  yet. 


188  A   STORY   OP    DOOM. 

The  garment  of  betrothal.'  "     And  he  said, 

"  'T  is  not  the  manner  of  our  kin  to  speak 

Concerning  matters  that  a  woman  rules  ; 

But  hath  thy  mother  brought  a  damsel  home, 

And  let  her  see  thy  face,  then  all  is  one 

As  ye  were  wed."     He  answered,  "  Even  so. 

It  matters  nothing ;  therefore  hear  me,  sir  : 

The  damsel  being  mine,  I  am  content 

To  let  her  do  according  to  her  will ; 

And  when  we  shall  return,  so  surely,  sir, 

As  I  shall  find  her  by  my  mother's  side, 

Then  will  I  take  her  "  ;  and  he  left  to  speak  ; 

His  father  answering,  "  Son,  thy  words  are  good." 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  189 


BOOK     VI. 


Night.     Now  a  tent  was  pitched,  and  Japhet  sat 
In  the  door  and  watched,  for  on  a  litter  lay 
The  father  of  his  love.     And  he  was  sick 
To  death  ;  but  daily  he  would  rouse  him  up, 
And  stare  upon  the  light,  and  ever  say, 
"  On,  let  us  journey  " ;  but  it  came  to  pass 
That  night,  across  their  path  a  river  ran, 
And  they  who  served  the  father  and  the  son 
Had  pitched  the  tents  beside  it,  and  had  made 
A  fire,  to  scare  away  the  savagery 
That  roamed  in  that  great  forest,  for  their  way 
Had  led  among  the  trees  of  God. 

The  moon 
Shone  on  the  river,  like  a  silver  road 
To  lead  them  over  ;  but  when  Japhet  looked. 
He  said,  "  We  shall  not  cross  it.     I  shall  lay 
This  well-beloved  head  low  in  the  leaves,  — 
Not  on  the  farther  side."     From  time  to  time. 
The  water-snakes  would  stir  its  glassy  flow 
With  curling  undulations,  and  would  lay 


190  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Their  heads  along  the  banks,  and,  subtle-eyed, 

Consider  those  long  spirting  flames,  that  danced, 

When  some  red  log  would  break  and  crumble  down, 

And  show  his  dark  despondent  eyes,  that  watched. 

Wearily,  even  Jajahet's.     But  he  cared 

Little ;  and  in  the  dark,  that  was  not  dark. 

But  dimness  of  confused  incertitude. 

Would  move  a-near  all  silently,  and  gaze 

And  breathe,  and  shape  itself,  a  maned  thing 

With  eyes ;  and  still  he  cared  not,  and  the  form 

Would  falter,  then  recede,  and  melt  again 

Into  the  farther  shade.     And  Japhet  said : 

"  How  long  ?     The  moon  hath  grown  again  in  heaven. 

After  her  caving  twice,  since  we  did  leave 

The  threshold  of  our  home ;  and  now  what  'vails 

That  fiir  on  tumbled  mountain  snow  we  toiled, 

Hungry,  and  weary,  all  the  day ;  by  night 

Waked  with  a  dreadful  trembling  underneath. 

To  look,  while  every  cone  smoked,  and  there  ran 

Eed  brooks  adown,  that  licked  the  forest  up. 

While  in  the  pale  white  ashes  wading  on 

We  saw  no  stars  ?  —  what  'vails  if  afterward. 

Astonished  with  great  silence,  we  did  move 

Over  the  measureless,  unknown  desert  mead  ; 


A    STORY   OK    I)00:.I.  191 

While  all  the  day,  in  rents  and  crevices, 

Would  lie  the  lizard  and  the  serpent  kind, 

Drowsy;  and  in  the  night  take  fearsome  shapes, 

And  oft-times  woman-faced  and  woman-haired 

Would  trail  their  snaky  length,  and  curse  and  mourn ; 

Or  there  would  wander  up,  when  we  were  tired. 

Dark  troops  of  evil  ones,  with  eyes  morose, 

"Withstanding  us,  and  staring  ;  —  O,  what  'vails 

That  in  the  dread  deep  forest  we  have  fouorht 

With  following  packs  of  wolves  ?    These  men  of  might. 

Even  the  giants,  shall  not  hear  the  doom 

INIy  fother  came  to  tell  them  of     Ah  me  ! 

If  God  indeed  had  sent  him,  would  he  lie 

(For  he  is  stricken  with  a  sore  disease) 

Helpless  outside  their  city  ?  " 

Then  he  rose. 
And  put  aside  the  curtains  of  the  tent. 
To  look  upon  his  father's  face ;  and  lo ! 
The  tent  being  dark,  he  thought  that  somewhat  sat 
Beside  the  litter ;  and  he  set  his  eyes 
To  see  it,  and  saw  not ;  but  only  marked 
^\Tiere,  fallen  away  from  manhood  and  from  power, 
His  father  lay.     Then  he  came  forth  again. 
Trembling,  and  crouched  besKle  the  dull  red  fire. 


192  A    STORY    OF    DOOM. 

And  miirmvired,  "  Now  It  is  the  second  time : 
An  old  man,  as  I  think  (but  scarcely  saw), 
Dreadful  of  might.     Its  hair  was  white  as  wool : 
I  dared  not  look ;  perhaps  I  saw  not  aught, 
But  only  knew  that  it  was  there :  the  same 
Which  walked  beside  us  once  when  he  did  pray." 
And  Japhet  hid  his  face  between  his  hands 
For  fear,  and  grief  of  heart,  and  weariness 
Of  watching ;  and  he  slumbered  not,  but  mourned 
To  himself,  a  little  moment,  as  it  seemed. 
For  sake  of  his  loved  father ;  then  he  lift 
His  eyes,  and  day  had  dawned.     Right  suddenly 
The  moon  withheld  her  silver,  and  she  hung 
Frail  as  a  cloud.     The  ruddy  flame  that  played 
By  night  on  dim,  dusk  trees,  and  on  the  flood. 
Crept  red  amongst  the  logs,  and  all  the  world 
And  all  the  water  blushed  and  bloomed.     The  stars 
Were  gone,  and  golden  shafts  came  up,  and  touched 
The  feathered  heads  of  palms,  and  green  was  born 
Under  the  rosy  cloud,  and  purples  flew 
Like  veils  across  the  mountains ;  and  ho  saw, 
Winding  athwart  them,  bathed  in  blissful  peace, 
And  the  sacrednc^ss  of  morn,  the  battlements 
And  out-posts  of  the  giants ;  and  there  ran 


A    STORY   OF   DOOM.  193 

On  tlie  other  side  the  river,  as  it  were, 
White  mounds  of  marble,  tabernacles  fliir, 
And  towers  below  a  line  of  inland  clifT: 
These  were  their  fastnesses,  and  here  their  homes. 

In  valleys  and  the  forest,  all  that  night, 
There  had  been  woe  ;  in  every  hollow  place. 
And  under  walls,  like  drifted  flowers,  or  snow. 
Women  lay  moiu'ning  ;  for  the  serpent  lodged 
That  night  within  the  gates,  and  had  decreed, 
"  I  will  (or  ever  I  come)  that  ye  drive  out 
The  women,  the  abhorred  of  my  soul." 

Therefore,  more  beauteous  than  all  climbing  bloom, 

Purple  and  scarlet,  cumbering  of  the  boughs, 

Or  flights  of  azure  doves  that  lit  to  drink 

The  water  of  the  river ;  or,  new  born, 

The  quivering  butterflies  in  companies, 

That  slowly  crept  adown  the  sandy  marge, 

Like  living  crocus  beds,  and  also  drank. 

And  rose  an  orange  cloud ;  tlieir  hollowed  hands 

They  dipped  between  the  lilies,  or  with  robes 

Full  of  ripe  fruitage,  sat  and  peeled  and  ate, 

^Veeping ;  or  comforting  their  little  ones, 


194  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

And  lulling  tliem  with  sorrowful  long  liymns 
Among  the  palms. 

So  went  the  earlier  morn. 
Then  came  a  messenger,  while  Japhet  sat 
Mournfully,  and  he  said,  "  The  men  of  might 
Are  willing  ;  let  thy  master,  youth,  appear." 
And  Japhet  said,  "  So  be  it "  ;  and  he  thought, 
"  Now  will  I  trust  in  God  " ;  and  he  went  in 
And  stood  before  his  father,  and  he  said, 
"  My  father  " ;  but  the  Master  answered  not, 
But  gazed  upon  the  curtains  of  his  tent. 
Nor  knew  that  one  had  called  him.     He  was  clad 
As  ready  for  the  journey,  and  his  feet 
Were  sandalled,  and  his  staff  was  at  his  side ; 
And  Japhet  took  the  gown  of  sacrifice 
And  spread  it  on  him,  and  he  laid  his  crown 
Upon  his  knees,  and  he  went  forth,  and  lift 
His  hand  to  heaven,  and  cried,  "My  fother's  God!" 
But  neither  whisper  came  nor  echo  fell 
AVhen  he  did  listen.     Therefore  he  went  on  : 
""  Behold,  I  have  a  thing  to  say  to  thee. 
My  father  charged  thy  servant,  '  Let  not  ruth 
Prevail  with  thee  to  turn  and  bear  me  hence, 
For  God  appointed  me  my  task,  to  preach 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  195 

Before  the  mighty.'     I  must  do  my  part 
(O,  let  it  not  displease  thee),  for  he  said 
But  yesternight,  '  When  they  shall  send  for  me, 
Take  me  before  them.'     And  I  sware  to  him. 
I  pray  thee,  therefore,  count  his  life  and  mine 
Precious ;  for  I  that  sware,  I  will  jJci-form." 

Then  cried  he  to  his  people,  "  Let  us  hence  : 
Take  up  the  litter."  And  they  set  their  feet 
Toward  the  raft  whereby  men  crossed  that  flood. 

And  while  they  journeyed,  lo,  the  giants  sat 

Within  the  fairest  hall  where  all  were  fair, 

Each  on  his  carven  throne,  o'er-canopied 

With  work  of  women.     And  the  dragon  lay 

In  a  place  of  honor ;  and  with  subtlety 

He  counselled  them,  for  they  did  speak  by  turns  ; 

And  they,  being  proud,  might  nothing  master  them, 

But  guile  alone  :  and  he  did  fawn  on  them  ; 

And  when  the  younger  taunted  him,  submiss 

He  testified  great  humbleness,  and  cried, 

"  A  cruel  God,  forsooth !  but  nay,  O  nay, 

I  will  not  think  it  of  Him,  that  He  meant 


196  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

To  threaten  these.     O,  when  I  look  on  them, 
How  doth  my  soul  admire." 

And  one  stood  forth, 
The  youngest;   of  his  brethren  named  "  the  Rock." 
"  Speak  out,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  toothless,  slavering  thing, 
What  is  it  ?  thinkest  thou  that  such  as  we 
Should  be  afraid  ?     What  is  this  goodly  doom  ?  " 
And  Satan  laughed  upon  him.     "  Lo,"  said  he, 
"  Thou  art  not  fully  grown,  and  every  one 
1  look  on  standeth  higher  by  the  head. 
Yea,  and  the  shoulders,  than  do  other  men ; 
Forsooth,  thy  servant  thought  not  thou  wouldst  fear, 
Thou  and  thy  fellows."     Then  with  one  accord, 
"  Speak,"  cried  they ;  and  with  mild,  pei-suasive  eyes. 
And  flattering  tongue,  he  spoke. 

"  Ye  mighty  ones, 
It  hath  been  known  to  you  these  many  days 
How  that  for  piety  I  am  much  famed. 
I  am  exceeding  pious  :  if  I  lie. 
As  hath  been  whispered,  it  is  but  for  sake 
Of  God,  and  that  ye  should  not  think  Illm  hard. 
For  I  am  all  for  God.     Now  some  have  thought 
That  He  hath  also  (and  it  may  be  so 
Or  yet  may  not  be  so)  on  me  been  hard  ; 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  197 

Be  not  ye  therefore  wTOtli,  for  my  poor  sake  ; 
I  am  contented  to  have  earned  your  weal, 
Though  I  must  therefore  suffer. 

Now  to-day 
One  cometh,  yea,  an  harmless  man,  a  fool. 
Who  boasts  he  hath  a  message  from  our  God, 
And  lest  that  you,  for  bravery  of  heart 
And  stoutness,  being  angered  with  his  prate, 
Should  lift  a  hand,  and  kill  him,  I  am  here." 

Then   spoke   the   Leader,   "  How   now,   snake  ?     Thy 

words 
Ring  false.     Why  ever  liest  thou,  snake,  to  us  ? 
Thou  coward  !  none  of  us  will  see  thee  harmed. 
I  say  thou  liest.     The  land  is  strewed  with  slain  ; 
Myself  have  hewri  down  companies,  and  blood 
Makes  fertile  all  the  field.     Tliou  knowest  it  well ; 
And  hast  thou,  driveller,  panting  sore  for  age, 
Come  with  a  force  to  bid  us  spare  one  fool  ?  " 

And  Satan  answered,  "  Nay  you  !  be  not  wroth  ; 
Yet  true  it  is,  and  yet  not  all  the  truth. 
Your  servant  would  have  told  the  rest,  if  now 
(For  fulness  of  your  life  being  fretted  soro 


198  A    STORY  OF   DOOM. 

At  mine  infirmities,  which  God  in  vain 

I  supplicate  to  heal)  ye  had  not  caused 

My  speech  to  stop."     And  he  they  called  "  the  Oak  " 

Made  answer,  "  'T  is  a  good  snake ;  let  him  be. 

Why  would  ye  fright  the  poor  old  craven  beast  ? 

Look  how  his  lolling  tongue  doth  foam  for  fear. 

Ye  should  have  mercy,  brethren,  on  the  weak. 

Speak,  dragon,  thou  hast  leave  •,  make  stout  thy  heart. 

What  !  hast  thou  lied  to  this  great  company  ? 

It  was,  we  know  it  was,  for  humbleness  ; 

Thou  wert  not  willing  to  offend  with  truth." 

"  Yea,  majesties,"  quoth  Satan,  "  thus  it  was," 

And  lifted  up  appealing  eyes,  and  groaned ; 

"  O,  can  it  be,  compassionate  as  brave, 

And  housed  in  cunning  works  themself^es  have  reared, 

And  served  in  gold,  and  warmed  with  minivere, 

And  ruling  nobly,  that  He,  not  content 

Unless  alone  He  reigneth,  looks  to  bend 

Or  break  them  in,  like  slaves  to  cry  to  Him, 

'  What  is  Thy  will  with  us,  O  Master  dear  ?  ' 

Or  else  to  cat  of  death  ? 

For  my  part,  lords, 
I  cannot  think  it :  for  my  piety 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  199 

And  reason,  which  I  also  share  with  you, 

Are  ray  best  lights,  and  ever  counsel  me, 

'  Believe  not  aught  against  thy  God  ;  believe. 

Since  thou  canst  never  reach  to  do  Him  wrong, 

That  He  will  never  stoop  to  do  thee  wrong. 

Is  He  not  just  and  equal,  yea,  and  kind  ? 

Therefore,  O  majesties,  it  is  my  mind. 

Concerning  him  ye  wot  of,  thus  to  think 

The  message  is  not  like  what  I  have  learned, 

By  reason  and  experience,  of  the  God. 

Therefore  no  message  't  is.     The  man  is  mad. 

Thereat  the  Leader  laughed  for  scorn.     "  Hold,  snake  ; 

If  God  be  just,  there  shall  be  reckoning  days. 

We  rather  would  He  were  a  partial  God, 

And,  being  strong,  He  sided  with  the  strong. 

Turn  now  thy  reason  to  the  other  side. 

And  speak  for  that ;  for  as  to  justice,  snake, 

We  would  have  none  of  it." 

And  Satan  fawned : 
"  My  lord  is  pleased  to  mock  at  my  poor  wit ; 
Yet  in  my  pious  fashion  I  must  talk : 
For  say  that  God  was  wroth  with  man,  and  came 
And  slew  him,  that  should  make  an  empty  world, 
But  not  a  better  nation." 


200  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

This  replied, 
"  Truth,  dragon,  yet  He  is  not  bound  to  mean 
A  better  nation  ;  maybe,  He  designs. 
If  none  will  turn  again,  a  punishment 
Upon  an  evil  one." 

And  Satan  cried, 
"  Alas  !  my  heart  being  full  of  love  for  men, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think  of  God  as  like 
To  me  ;  and  yet  my  piety  concludes. 
Since  He  will  have  your  fear,  that  love  alone 
Sufficeth  not,  and  I  admire,  and  say, 
'  Give  me,  O  friends,  your  love,  and  give  to  God 
Your  fear.' "     But  they  cried  out  in  wrath  and  rage, 
"  We  are  not  strong  that  any  we  will  fear. 
Nor  specially  a  foe  that  means  us  ill." 


» 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  201 


BOOK    VII, 


And  while  he  spoke  there  was  a  noise  without ; 
The  curtains  of  the  door  were  flung  aside, 
And  some  with  heavy  feet  bare  in,  and  set 
A  litter  on  the  floor. 

The  ]\Iaster  lay 
Upon  it,  but  his  eyes  were  dimmed  and  set ; 
And  Japhet,  in  despairing  weariness, 
Leaned  it  beside.     He  mai-ked  the  mighty  ones, 
Silent  for  pride  of  heart,  and  in  his  place 
The  jewelled  dragon  ;  and  the  dragon  laughed. 
And  subtly  peered  at  him,  till  Japhet  shook 
With  rage  and  fear.     The  snaky  wonder  cried. 
Hissing,  "  Thou  brown-haired  youth,  come  up  to  me ; 
I  fain  would  have  thee  for  my  shrine  afar. 
To  serve  among  an  host  as  beautiful 
As  thou  :  draw  near."     It  hissed,  and  Japhet  felt 
Horrible  drawings,  and  cried  out  in  fear, 
"  Father  !  O  help,  the  serpent  draweth  me  ! " 
And  struggled  and  grew  faint,  as  in  the  toils 
A  netted  bird.     But  still  his  father  lay 


.202  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Unconscious,  and  tlie  mighty  did  not  speak, 

But  half  in  fear  and  half  for  wonderment 

Beheld.     And  yet  again  the  dragon  laughed, 

And  leered  at  him  and  hissed  ;  and  Japhet  strove 

Vainly  to  take  away  his  spell-set  eyes, 

And  moved  to  go  to  him,  till  piercingly 

Crying  out,  "  God !  forbid  it,  God  in  heaven  !  " 

The  dragon  lowered  his  head,  and  shut  his  eyes 

As  feigning  sleep  ;  and,  suddenly  released, 

He  i'ell  back  staggering  ;  and  at  noise  of  it, 

And  clash  of  Japhet's  weapons  on  the  floor, 

And  Japhet's  voice  crying  out,  "  I  loathe  thee,  snake ! 

I  hate  thee  !  O,  I  hate  thee  ! "  came  again. 

The  senses  of  the  shipwright ;  and  he,  moved, 

And  looking,  as  one  'mazed,  distressfully 

Upon  the  mighty,  said,  "  One  called  on  God  : 

Where  is  my  God  ?     If  God  have  need  of  me. 

Let  Him  come  down  and  touch  my  lips  with  strength, 

Or  dying  I  shall  die." 

It  came  to  pass, 
While  he  was  speaking,  that  the  curtains  swayed  ; 
A  rushing  wind  did  move  throughout  the  place. 
And  all  the  pillars  shook,  and  on  the  head 
Of  Noah  the  hair  was  lifted,  and  there  played 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  203. 

A  somewhat,  as  it  were  a  light,  upon 

His  breast ;  then  fell  a  darkness,  and  men  heard 

A  whisper  as  of  one  that  spake.     With  that, 

The  daunted  mighty  ones  kept  silent  watch 

Until  the  wind  had  ceased  and  darkness  fled. 

When  it  grew  light,  there  curled  a  cloud  of  smoke 

From  many  censers  where  the  dragon  lay. 

[t  hid  him.     lie  had  called  his  ministrants, 

A.nd  bid  them  veil  him  thus,  that  none  might  look ; 

A.lso  the  folk  who  came  with  Noah  had  fled. 

But  Noah  was  seen,  for  he  stood  up  erect, 
And  leaned  on  Japhet's  hand.     Then,  after  pause, 
The  Leader  said,  "  My  brethren,  it  were  well 
(For  naught  we  fear)  to  let  this  sorcei'er  speak." 
And  they  did  reach  toward  the  man  their  staves, 
And  cry  with  loud  accord,  "  Hail,  sorcerer,  hail ! " 

And  he  made  answer,  "  Hail !  I  am  a  man 

That  is  a  shipwright.     I  was  born  afar 

To  Lamech,  him  that  reigns  a  king,  to  wit, 

Over  the  land  of  Jalal.     Majesties, 

I  bring  a  message,  —  lay  you  it  to  heart ; 

For  there  is  wrath  in  heaven :  my  God  is  wroth. 


204  A    STORY    OF    DOOM. 

Prepare  your  houses,  or  I  come,'  saitli  He, 
'  A  Judge.'     Now,  therefore,  say  not  in  your  hearts, 
'  What  have  we  done  ? '     Your  dogs  may  answer  that, 
To  make  whom  fiercer  for  the  chase  ye  feed 
With  captives  whom  ye  slew  not  in  the  war. 
But  saved  alive,  and  living  throw  to  them 
Daily.     Your  wives  may  answer  that,  whose  babes 
Their  firstborn  ye  do  take  and  offer  up 
To  this  abhorred  snake,  while  yet  the  milk 
Is  in  their  innocent  mouths,  —  your  maiden  babes 
Tender.     Your  slaves  may  answer  that,  —  the  gangs 
AVhose  eyes  ye  did  put  out  to  make  them  work 
By  night  unwitting  (yea,  by  multitudes 
They  work  upon  the  wheel  in  chains).     Your  friends 
May  answer  that,  —  (their  bleached  bones  cry  out,) 
For  ye  did,  wickedly,  to  eat  their  lands. 
Turn  on  their  valleys,  in  a  time  of  j^eace, 
The  rivers,  and  they,  choking  in  the  night. 
Died  unavenged.     But  rather  (for  I  leave 
To  tell  of  more,  the  time  would  be  so  long 
To  do  it,  and  your  time,  O  niiglity  ones, 
Is  sliort),  —  but  rather  say,  '  ^A'o  sinners  know 
Why  the  Judge  standeth  at  the  door,'  and  turn 
While  yet  there  may  be  respite,  and  repent. 


A   STOUY   OF    DOOM.  205 

'  Or  else,'  saith  He  that  formed  you,  '  I  swear, 

By  all  the  silence  of  the  time  to  come, 

By  the  solemnities  of  death,  —  yea,  more, 

By  i\Iine  own  power  and  love  which  ye  have  scorned, 

That  I  will  come.     I  will  command  the  clouds, 

And  raining  they  shall  rain ;  yea,  I  will  stir 

AV  ith  all  my  storms  the  ocean  for  your  sake, 

And  break  for  you  the  boundary  of  the  deep. 

" '  Then  shall  the  mighty  mourn. 

Should  I  forbear, 
That  have  been  patient  ?     I  will  not  forbear  ! 
For  yet,'  saith  He,  '  the  weak  cry  out ;  for  yet 
The  little  ones  do  languish ;  and  the  slave 
Lifts  up  to  ^le  his  chain.     I,  therefore,  I 
AVill  hear  them.     I  by  death  will  scatter  you ; 
Yea,  and  by  death  will  draw  them  to  My  breast. 
And  gather  them  to  peace. 

But  yet,'  saith  He, 
'  Repent,  and  turn  you.     Wherefore  will  ye  die  ?  ' 

"  Turn  then,  O  turn,  while  yet  the  enemy 
Untamed  of  man  fatefully  moans  afar  ; 
For  if  ye  will  not  turn,  the  doom  is  near. 


206  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Then  shall  the  crested  wave  make  sport,  and  beat 
You  mighty  at  your  doors.     Will  ye  be  wroth  ? 
Win  ye  forbid  it  ?     Monsters  of  the  deep 
Shall  suckle  in  your  palaces  their  young, 
And  swim  atween  your  hangings,  all  of  them 
Costly  with  broidered  work,  and  rare  with  gold 
And  white  and  scarlet  (there  did  ye  oppress,  — 
There  did  ye  make  you  vile)  ;  but  ye  shall  lie 
Meekly,  and  storm  and  wind  shall  rage  above, 
And  urge  the  weltering  wave. 

'  Yet,'  saith  thy  God, 
'  Son,'  ay,  to  each  of  you  He  saith,  '  O  son, 
Made  in  My  image,  beautiful  and  strong. 
Why  wilt  thou  die  ?     Thy  father  loves  thee  well. 
Repent  and  turn  thee  from  thine  evil  ways, 
O  son  !  and  no  more  dare  the  wrath  of  love. 
Live  for  thy  Father's  sake  that  formed  thee. 
Why  wilt  thou  die  ? '     Here  will  I  make  an  end." 

Now  ever  on  his  dais  the  dragon  lay, 
Feigning  to  sleep  ;  and  all  the  mighty  ones 
Were  wroth,  and  chided,  some  against  the  woe, 
And  some  at  whom  the  sorcerer  they  had  named, — 
Some  at  their  fellows,  for  the  younger  sort  — 


A   STORY   OF    DOOJr.  207 

As  men  the  less  acquaint  with  deeds  of  blood, 
And  given  to  learning  and  the  arts  of  peace 
(Their  fathers  having  crushed  rebellion  out 
Before  their  time)  —  lent  favorable  ears. 
They  said,  "  A  man,  or  false  or  fanatic, 
May  claim  good  audience  if  he  fill  our  ears 
With  what  is  strange  :  and  we  would  hear  again." 

The  Leader  said,  "  An  audience  hath  been  given. 
The  man  hath  spoken,  and  his  words  are  naught ; 
A  feeble  threatener,  with  a  foolish  threat, 
And  it  is  not  our  manner  that  we  sit 
Beyond  the  noonday  "  ;  then  they  grandly  rose, 
A  stalwart  crowd,  and  with  their  Leader  moved 
To  the  tones  of  harping,  and  the  beat  of  shawms. 
And  the  noise  of  pipes,  away.     But  some  were  left 
About  the  Master  ;  and  the  feigning  snake 
Couched  on  his  dais. 

Then  one  to  Japhet  said,  — 
One  called  "  the  Cedar  Tree,"  —  "  Dost  thou,  too,  think 
To  reign  upon  our  lands  when  we  lie  drowned  ?  " 
And  Japhet  said,  "  I  think  not,  nor  desire. 
Nor  in  my  heart  consent,  but  that  ye  swear 
Allegiance  to  the  God,  and  live."     He  cried, 


208  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

To  one  surnamed  "  the  Pine,"  —  "  Brother,  behooves 
That  deep  we  cut  our  names  in  yonder  crag, 
Else  when  this  youth  returns,  his  sons  may  ask 
Our  names,  and  he  may  answer,  '  Matters  not, 
For  my  part  I  forget  them.' " 

Japhet  said, 
"  They  might  do  worse  than  that,  they  might  deny 
That  such  as  you  have  ever  been."     With  that 
They  answered,  "  No,  thou  dost  not  think  it,  no  ! " 
And  Japhet,  being  chafed,  replied  in  heat, 
"  And  wherefore  ?  if  ye  say  of  what  is  sworn, 
'  He  will  not  do  it,'  shall  it  be  more  hard 
For  future  men,  if  any  talk  on  it, 
To  say,  '  He  did  not  do  it '  ?  "     They  replied, 
With  laughter,  "  Lo  you  !  he  is  stout  with  us. 
And  yet  he  cowered  before  the  poor  old  snake. 
Sirrah,  when  you  are  saved,  we  pray  you  now 
To  bear  our  might  in  mind,  —  do,  sirrah,  do  ; 
And  likewise  tell  your  sons,  '  "  The  Cedar  Tree  " 
Was  a  good  giant,  for  he  struck  me  not. 
Though  he  was  young  and  full  of  sport,  and  though 
I  taxnited  him.' " 

With  that  they  also  passed. 
But  there  remained  who  with  the  shipwright  spoke  : 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  209 

"  How  wilt  thou  certify  to  us  thy  truth  ?  " 
And  he  related  to  them  all  his  ways 
From  the  beginning:  of  the  Voice  that  called; 
IVIoreover,  how  the  ship  of  doom  was  built. 

And  one  made  answer,  "  Shall  the  mighty  God 
Talk  with  a  man  of  wooden  beams  and  bars  ? 
No,  thou  mad  preacher,  no.     If  He,  Eterne, 
Be  ordering  of  His  far  infinitudes. 
And  darkness  cloud  a  world,  it  is  but  chance. 
As  if  the  shadow  of  His  hand  had  fallen 
On  one  that  He  forgot,  and  troubled  it." 

Then  said  the  Master,  "  Yet  —  who  told  thee  so  ?  " 

And  from  his  dais  the  feigning  serpent  hissed  : 
"  Preacher,  the  light  within,  it  was  that  shincd, 
And  told  him  so.     The  pious  will  have  dread 
Him  to  declare  such  as  ye  rashly  told. 
The  course  of  God  is  one.     It  likes  not  us 
To  think  of  Him  as  being  acquaint  with  change  : 
It  were  beneath  Him.     Nay,  the  finished  earth 
Is  left  to  her  great  masters.     They  must  rule  ; 
They  do  ;  and  I  have  set  myself  between,  — 


210  .  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

A  visible  thing  for  worship,  sith  Ills  face 

(For  lie  is  hard)  He  showeth  not  to  men. 

Yea,  I  have  set  myself  'twixt  God  and  man, 

To  be  Interpreter,  and  teach  mankind 

A  pious  lesson  by  my  piety. 

He  loveth  not,  nor  hateth,  nor  desires,  — 

Tt  were  beneath  Him." 

And  the  Master  said, 
"  Thou  llest.     Thou  wouldst  lie  away  the  world. 
If  He  whom  thou  hast  dared  to  speak  against 
Would  suffer  it."     "  I  may  not  chide  with  thee," 
It  answered,  "  now  ;  but  if  there  come  such  time 
As  thou  hast  prophesied,  as  I  now  reign 
In  all  men's  sight,  shall  my  dominion  then 
Reach  to  be  mighty  in  their  souls.     Thou  too 
Shalt  feel  It,  jorophet."     And  he  lowered  his  head. 

Then  quoth  the  Leader  of  the  young  men  :  "  Sir, 
We  scorn  you  not ;  speak  further  ;  yet  our  thought 
First  answer.     Not  but  by  a  miracle 
Can  tlnis  tiling  be.     The  fashion  of  the  world 
We  heretofore  liave  never  known  to  change ; 
And  will  God  change  it  now  ?  " 

He  then  replied : 


A    STOKY    OF    DOOM.  211 

''  Wliat  is  thy  thought  ?     There  is  xo  miracle  ? 

There  is  a  great  one,  which  thou  hast  not  read, 

And  never  shalt  escape.     Thyself,  O  man. 

Thou  art  the  miracle.     Lo,  if  thou  sayest, 

'  I  am  one,  and  fashioned  like  the  gracious  world, 

Red  clay  is  all  my  make,  myself,  my  whole, 

And  not  my  habitation,'  then  thy  sleep 

Shall  give  thee  wings  to  play  among  the  rays 

O'  the  morning.     If  thy  thought  be,  '  I  am  one  — 

A  spirit  among  spirits  —  and  the  world 

A  dream  my  spirit  dreameth  of,  my  dream 

Being  all,'  the  dominating  mountains  strong 

Shall  not  for  that  forbear  to  take  thy  breath. 

And  rage  with  all  their  winds,  and  beat  thee  back, 

And  beat  thee  down  when  thou  wouldst  set  thy  feet 

Upon  their  awful  crests.     Ay,  thou  thyself, 

Being  in  the  world  and  of  the  world,  thyself 

Hast  breathed  in  breath  from  Him  that  made  the  world- 

Thou  dost  inherit,  as  thy  Maker's  son, 

That  which  He  is,  and  that  which  He  hath  made  : 

Thou  art  thy  Father's  copy  of  Himself, — 

Thou  art  thy  Father's  miracle. 

"  Behold, 
He  buildeth  up  the  stars  in  companies  ; 


212  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

He  made  for  them  a  law.     To  man  He  said, 

'  Freely  I  give  thee  freedom.'     What  remains  ? 

O,  it  remains,  if  thou,  the  image  of  God, 

Wilt  reason  well,  that  thou  shalt  know  His  ways  ; 

But  first  thou  must  be  loyal,  —  love,  O  man. 

Thy  Father,  —  hearken  when  He  pleads  with  thee, 

For  there  is  something  left  of  Him  e'en  now,  — 

A  witness  for  thy  Father  in  thy  soul. 

Albeit  thy  better  state  thou  hast  foregone. 

"  Now,  then,  be  still,  and  think  not  in  thy  soul, 

'  The  rivers  in  their  course  forever  run, 

And  turn  not  from  it.     He  is  like  to  them 

Who  made  them.'     Think  the  rather,  '  With  my  foot 

I  have  turned  the  rivers  from  their  ancient  way. 

To  water  grasses  that  were  fading.     What ! 

Is  God  my  Father  as  the  river  wave. 

That  yet  descendeth,  —  like  the  lesser  thing 

He  made,  and  not  like  me,  a  living  son. 

That  changed  the  watercourse  to  suit  his  will  ? ' 

"  Man  is  the  miracle  in  nature.     God 

Is  the  Onk  Miracle  to  man.     Behold, 

'  There  is  a  God,'  thou  sayost.     Thou  sayest  well  : 

In  that  thou  sayest  all.     To  Be  is  more 


A    STORY    OF    DOOJr.  213 

Of  wonderful  than,  being,  to  have  •wrought, 
Or  reigned,  or  rested. 

Hold  then  there,  content 
Learn  that  to  love  is  the  one  way  to  know 
Or  God  or  man :  it  is  not  love  received 
That  maketh  man  to  know  the  inner  life 
Of  them  that  love  him  ;  his  own  love  bestowed 
Shall  do  it.     Love  thy  Father,  and  no  more 
His  doings  shall  be  strange.     Thou  shalt  not  fret 
At  any  counsel,  then,  that  He  will  send, — 
No,  nor  rebel,  albeit  He  have  with  thee 
Great  reservations.     Know,  to  Be  is  more 
Than  to  have  acted  ;  yea,  or,  after  rest 
And  patience,  to  have  risen  and  been  wroth, 
Broken  the  sequence  of  an  ordered  earth, 
And  troubled  nations." 

Then  the  dragon  sighed. 
"Poor  fanatic,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  speakest  well. 
Would  I  were  like  thee,  for  thy  faith  is  strong, 
Albeit  thy  senses  wander.     Yea,  good  sooth. 
My  masters,  let  us  not  despise,  but  learn 
Fresh  loyalty  from  this  poor  loyal  soul. 
Let  us  go  forth  —  (myself  will  also  go 
To  head  you)  —  and  do  sacrifice  ;  for  that, 


214  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

We  know,  is  pleasing  to  the  mighty  God: 
But  as  for  building  many  arks  of  wood, 
O  majesties !  when  He  shall  counsel  you 
Himself,  then  build.     "What  say  you,  shall  it  be 
An  hundred  oxen,  —  fat,  well  liking,  white  ? 
An  hundred  ?  why,  a  thousand  were  not  much 
To  such  as  you."     Then  Noah  lift  up  his  arms 
To  heaven,  and  cried,  "  Thou  aged  shape  of  sin, 
The  Lord  rebuke  thee." 


BOOK    VIII, 


Then  one  ran,  crying,  while  Niloiya  wrought, 
"  The  Master  cometh  ! "  and  she  went  within 
To  adorn  herself  for  meeting  him.     And  Shem 
Went  forth  and  talked  with  Japhet  in  the  field, 
And  said,  "  It  is  well,  my  brother?  "  He  replied, 
*'  Well !  and,  I  pray  you,  is  it  well  at  home  V  " 

But  Shem  made  answer,  "  Can  a  house  be  well, 
If  he  that  should  conunand  it  bides  afar  ? 
Yet  well  is  thee,  because  a  fair  free  maid 


A    STORY    OF    DOOM.  215 

Is  found  to  wed  thee ;  and  they  bring  her  in 
This  day  at  sundown.     Therefore  is  much  haste 
To  cover  thick  with  costly  webs  the  floor, 
And  pluck  and  cover  thick  the  same  with  leaves 
Of  all  sweet  herbs,  —  I  warrant,  ye  shall  hear 
No  footfall  where  she  treadeth ;  and  the  seats 
Are  ready,  spread  with  robes ;  the  tables  set 
With  golden  baskets,  red  pomegranates  shred 
To  fill  them  ;  and  the  rubied  censers  smoke, 
Heaped  up  with  ambergris  and  cinnamon, 
And  frankincense  and  cedar." 

Japhet  said, 
"  I  will  betroth  her  to  me  straight" ;  and  went 
(Yet  labored  he  with  sore  disquietude) 
To  gather  grapes,  and  reap  and  bind  the  sheaf 
For  his  betrothal.     And  his  brother  spake, 
"  Where  is  our  father  ?  doth  he  preach  to-day  ?  " 
And  Japhet  answered,  "  Yea.     He  said  to  me, 
'  Go  forward  ;  I  will  follow  when  the  folk 
By  yonder  mountain-hold  I  shall  have  warned. ' " 

And  Shem  replied,  "  How  thinkest  thou  ?  —  thine  ears 
Have  heard  him  oft."     He  answered,  "  I  do  think 
These  be  the  last  days  of  this  old.  fail'  world." 


216  A   STORY   OF   DOOM. 

Then  lie  did  tell  him  of  the  giant  folk  ; 

How  they  than  he  were  taller  by  the  head ; 

How  one  must  stride  that  will  ascend  the  steps 

That  lead  to  their  wide  halls  ;  and  how  they  drave, 

With  manful  shouts,  the  mammoth  to  the  north  ; 

And  how  the  talking  di-agon  lied  and  fawned, 

They  seated  proudly  on  their  ivory  thrones. 

And  scorning  him :  and  of  their  peaked  hoods, 

And  garments  wrought  upon,  each  with  the  tale 

Of  him  that  wore  it,  —  all  his  manful  deeds 

(Yea,  and  about  their  skirts  were  effigies 

Of  kings  that  they  had  slain  ;  and  some,  whose  swords 

Many  had  pierced,  wore  vestures  all  of  red, 

To  signify  much  blood)  :  and  of  their  pride 

He  told,  but  of  the  vision  in  the  tent 

He  told  him  not. 

And  when  they  reached  the  house, 
Niloiya  met  them,  and  to  Japhet  cried, 
"  All  hail,  riglit  fortunate  !  Lo,  I  have  found 
A  maid.     And  now  thou  hast  done  well  to  reap 
The  late  ripe  corn."     So  he  went  in  with  her, 
And  she  did  talk  with  him  right  motherly  : 
"  It  hath  been  fully  told  me  how  ye  loathed 
To  wed  thy  father's  slave  ;  yea,  she  herself, 
Did  she  not  all  declare  to  me  ?  " 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  217 

He  said, 
"  Yet  is  thy  damsel  fair,  and  wise  of  heart." 
"  Yea,"  quoth  his  mother  ;  "  she  made  clear  to  me 
How  ye  did  weep,  my  son,  and  ye  did  vow, 
'  I  will  not  take  her  ! '     Now  it  was  not  I 
That  wrought  to  have  it  so."     And  he  replied, 
"  I  know  it "     Quoth  the  mother,  "  It  is  well ; 
For  that  same  cause  is  laughter  in  my  heart." 
"  But  she  is  sweet  of  language,"  Japhet  said. 
"  Ay,"  quoth  Niloiya,  "  and  thy  wife  no  less 
Whom  thon  shalt  wed  anon  —  forsooth,  anon  — 
It  is  a  lucky  hour.     Thou  wilt  ?  "     He  said, 
"  I  will."     And  Japhet  laid  the  slender  sheaf 
From  off  his  shoulder,  and  he  said,  "  Behold, 
My  father  ! "     Then  Xiloiya  turned  herself, 
And  lo  !  the  shipwright  stood.     "  All  hail ! "  quoth  she, 
And  bowed  herself,  and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth  ; 
But  while  she  spake  with  him,  sorely  he  sighed ; 
And  she  did  hang  about  his  neck  the  robe 
Of  feasting,  and  she  poured  upon  his  hands 
Clear  water,  and  anointed  him,  and  set 
Before  him  bread. 

And  Japhet  said  to  him, 
"  My  father,  my  beloved,  wilt  thou  yet 


218  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

Be  sad  because  of  scorning  ?     Eat,  this  day ; 

For  as  an  angel  in  their  eyes  thou  art 

Who  stand  before  thee."     But  he  answered,  "  Peace ! 

Thy  words  are  wide." 

And  when  Niloiya  heard, 
She  said,  "  Is  this  a  time  for  mirth  of  heart 
And  wine  ?     Behold,  I  thought  to  wed  my  son, 
Even  this  Japhet ;  but  is  this  a  time, 
When  sad  is  he  to  whom  is  my  desire, 
And  lying  under  sorrow  as  from  God  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  Yea,  it  is  a  time  of  times  ; 
Bring  in  the  maid."     Nilolya  said,  "  The  maid 
That  firet  I  spoke  on  shall  not  Japhet  wed  ; 
It  likes  not  her,  nor  yet  it  likes  not  me. 
But  I  have  found  another  ;  yea,  good  sooth, 
The  damsel  will  not  tarry,  she  will  come 
With  all  her  slaves  by  sundown." 

And  she  said, 
"  Comfort  thy  heart,  and  eat :  moreover,  know 
IIow  that  thy  great  work  even  to-day  is  done. 
Sir,  thy  great  ship  is  finisiicd,  and  the  folk 
(For  I,  according  to  thy  will,  have  paid 
A!l  that  was  left  us  to  them  for  their  wage) 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  219 

Have  brought,  as  to  a  storehouse,  flour  of  wheat, 
Honey  and  oil,  —  much  victual ;  yea,  and  fruits, 
Curtains  and  household  gear.     And,  sir,  they  say 
It  Is  thy  •win  to  take  it  for  thy  hold, 
Our  fastness  and  abode."     He  answered,  "  Yea, 
Else  wherefore  was  it  built  ?  "     She  said,  "  Good  sir, 
1  pray  you  make  us  not  the  whole  earth's  scorn. 
And  now,  to-morrow  in  thy  father's  house 
Is  a  great  feast,  and  weddings  are  toward ; 
Let  be  the  ship,  till  after,  for  thy  words 
Have  ever  been,  '  If  God  shall  send  a  flood, 
There  will  I  dwell ' ;  I  pray  you  therefore  wait 
At  least  till  He  doth  send  it." 

And  he  turned, 
And  answered  nothing.     Now  the  sun  was  low 
Willie  yet  she  spake  ;  and  Japhet  came  to  them 
In  goodly  raiment,  and  upon  his  arm 
The  garment  of  betrothal.     And  with  that 
A  noise,  and  then  brake  in  a  woman-slave 
And  Amarant.     This,  with  folding  of  her  hands, 
Did  say  full  meekly,  "  If  I  do  oirend. 
Yet  have  not  I  been  willing  to  oflend ; 
For  now  this  woman  will  not  be  denied 
Herself  to  tell  her  errand." 


220  A   STORY   OF    DOOM. 

And  they  sat. 
Then  spoke  the  woman,  "  If  I  do  offend, 
Pray  you  forgive  the  bondshxve,  for  her  tongue 
Is  for  her  mistress.     '  Lo,'  my  mistress  saith, 
'  Put  off  thy  bravery,  bridegroom ;  fold  away, 
Mother,  thy  webs  of  pride,  thy  costly  robes 
Woven  of  many  colors.     We  have  heard 
Thy  master.     Lo,  to-day  right  evil  things 
He  prophesied  to  us  that  were  his  friends ; 
Therefore,  my  answer  :  —  God  do  so  to  me  ; 
Yea,  God  do  so  to  me,  more  also,  more 
Than  he  did  threaten,  if  my  damsel's  foot 
Ever  draw  nigh  thy  door.'  " 

And  when  she  heard, 
Niloiya  sat  amazed,  in  grief  of  soul. 
But  Japhet  came  unto  the  slave,  where  low 
She  bowed  herself  for  fear.     He  said,  "  Depart ; 
Say  to  thy  mistress,  '  It  is  well.' "     With  that 
She  turned  herself,  and  she  made  haste  to  flee. 
Lest  any,  for  those  evil  words  she  brought, 
Would  smite  her.     But  the  bondmaid  of  the  house 
Lift  up  her  hand  and  said,  "  If  I  offend, 
It  was  not  of  ni}-^  heart :  thy  damsel  knew 
Naught  of  this  matter."     And  he  held  to  her 


A    STOKV   OK    DOOM.  221 

His  hand  and  touched  her,  and  said,  "  Amarant !  " 
And  when  she  looked  upon  him,  she  did  take 
And  spread  before  her  face  her  radiant  locks, 
Trembling.     And  Japhet  said,  "  Lift  up  tliy  face, 

0  fairest  of  the  daughters,  thy  fair  face ; 

For,  lo !  the  bridegroom  standeth  with  the  robe 
Of  thy  betrothal ! "  —  and  he  took  her  locks 
In  his  two  hands  to  part  them  from  her  brow, 
And  laid  them  on  her  shoulders ;  and  he  said, 
"  Sweet  are  the  blushes  of  thy  face,"  and  put 
The  robe  upon  her,  having  said,  "  Behold, 

1  have  repented  me ;  and  oft  by  night. 

In  the  waste  wilderness,  while  all  tilings  slept, 
I  thought  upon  thy  words,  for  they  were  sweet. 

"  For  this  I  make  thee  free.     And  now  thyself 
Art  loveliest  in  mine  eyes  ;  I  look,  and  lo ! 
Thou  art  of  beauty  more  than  any  thought 
T  had  concerning  thee.     Let,  then,  this  robe, 
Wrought  on  with  imagery  of  fruitful  bough. 
And  graceful  leaf,  and  birds  with  tender  eyes. 
Cover  the  ripj^les  of  thy  tawny  hair." 
So,  when  she  held  her  peace,  he  brought  her  nigh 
To  hear  the  speech  of  wedlock ;  ay,  he  took 


222  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

The  golden  cup  of  wine  to  drink  with  her, 
And  laid  the  sheaf  upon  her  arms.     He  said, 
"  Like  as  my  fathers  in  the  older  days 
Led  home  the  daughters  whom  they  chose,  do  I ; 
Like  as  they  said,  '  Mine  honor  have  I  set 
Upon  thy  head ! '  do  L     Eat  of  my  bread, 
Rule  in  my  house,  be  mistress  of  my  slaves. 
And  mother  of  my  children." 

And  he  brought 
The  damsel  to  his  father,  saying,  "  Behold 
My  wife !     I  have  betrothed  her  to  myself; 
I  pray  you,  kiss  her."     And  th'e  Master  did : 
He  said,  "  Be  mother  of  a  multitude, 
And  let  them  to  their  father  even  so 
Be  found  as  he  is  found  to  me." 

With  that 
She  answered,  "Let  this  woman,  sir,  find  grace 
And  favor  in  your  sight." 

And  Japhet  said, 
"  Sweet  mother,  I  have  wed  the  maid  ye  chose 
And  brought  me  fii-st.     I  leave  her  in  thy  hand ; 
Have  care  on  her,  till  I  shall  come  again 
And  ask  her  of  thee."     So  they  went  apart, 
He  and  his  father,  to  the  marriage  feast. 


A    STORY   OF    DOOM.  223 


BOOK    IX. 


The  prayer  of  Noah.     The  man  went  forth  by  night 

And  listened ;  and  the  earth  was  dark  and  still, 

And  he  was  driven  of  his  great  distress 

Into  the  forest ;  but  the  birds  of  night 

Sang  sweetly ;  and  he  fell  upon  his  face, 

And  cried,  "  God,  God  !  Thy  billows  and  Thy  waves 

Have  swallowed  up  my  soul. 

Where  is  my  God  ? 
For  I  have  somewhat  yet  to  plead  with  Theo  ; 
For  I  have  walked  the  strands  of  Thy  great  deep, 
Heard  the  dull  thunder  of  its  rage  afar, 
And  its  dread  moaning.     O,  the  field  Is  sweet,  — 
Spare  it.     Tlie  delicate  woods  make  white  their  trees 
With  blossom,  —  spare  them.     Life  is  sweet ;  behold 
There  is  much  cattle,  and  the  wild  and  tame. 
Father,  do  feed  in  quiet,  —  spare  them. 

God  ! 
Where  is  my  God  ?     The  long  wave  doth  not  rear 
Her  ghostly  crest  to  lick  the  forest  up, 
And  like  a  chief  in  battle  fall,  —  not  yet. 


224  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

The  lightnings  pour  not  down,  from  ragged  holes 
In  heaven,  the  torment  of  their  forked  tongues, 
And,  like  fell  serpents,  dart  and  sting,  —  not  yet. 
The  winds  awake  not,  with  their  awful  wings 
To  winnow,  even  as  chaff,  from  out  their  track, 
All  that  withstandeth,  and  bring  down  the  pride 
Of  all  things  strong  and  all  things  high  — 

Not  yet. 
O,  let  it  not  be  yet.     Where  is  my  God  ? 
How  am  I  saved,  if  I  and  mine  be  saved 
Alone  ?     I  am  not  saved,  for  I  have  loved 
My  country  and  my  kin.     Must  I,  Thy  thrall, 
Over  their  lands  be  lord  when  they  are  gone  ? 
I  would  not :  spare  them.  Mighty.     Spare  Thyself, 
For  Thou  dost  love  them  greatly,  —  and  if  not  .  .  ." 

Another  praying  unremote,  a  Voice 
Calm  as  the  solitude  between  wide  stars. 

"  Where  is  my  God,  who  loveth  this  lost  world,  — 
Lost  from  its  place  and  name,  but  won  for  Thee  ? 
Where  is  my  multitude,  my  multitude. 
That  I  shall  gather  ?  "     And  white  smoke  went  up 
From  incense  that  was  burning,  but  there  gleamed 


A   STORY   OF    DOOM.  225 

t^o  light  of  fire,  save  dimly  to  reveal 

The  whiteness  rising,  as  the  prayer  of  him 

That  mourned.     "  i\Iy  God,  appear  for  me,  appear  ; 

Give  me  my  multitude,  for  it  is  mine. 

The  bitterness  of  death  I  have  not  feared, 

To-morrow  shall  Thy  courts,  O  God,  be  full. 

Then  shall  the  captive  from  his  bonds  go  free, 

Then  shall  the  thrall  find  rest,  that  knew  not  rest 

From  labor  and  from  blows.     The  sorrowful  — 

That  said  of  joy,  '  What  is  it  ?  '  and  of  songs, 

'  AVe  have  not  heard  them  '  —  shall  be  glad  and  sing ; 

Then  shall  the  little  ones  that  knew  not  Thee, 

And  such  as  heard  not  of  Thee,  see  Thy  fece, 

And,  seeing,  dwell  content." 

The  prayer  of  Noah. 
He  cried  out  in  the  darkness,  "  Hear,  O  God, 
Hear  Him  :  hear  this  one  ;  through  the  gates  of  death, 
If  life  be  all  past  praying  for,  O  give 
To  Thy  great  multitude  a  way  to  peace ; 
Give  them  to  Him. 

But  yet,"  said  he,  "  O  yet, 
If  there  be  respite  for  the  terrible, 
The  proud,  yea,  such  as  scorn  Thee — and  if  not  .  .  . 
Let  not  mine  eyes  behold  their  fall." 


226  A   STORY  OF    DOOM. 

He  cried, 
"  Forgive.     I  have  not  done  Thy  work,  Great  Judge, 
With  a  perfect  heart ;  I  have  but  half  believed, 
While  in  accustomed  language  I  have  warned ; 
And  now  there  is  no  more  to  do,  no  place 
For  my  repentance,  yea,  no  hour  remains 
For  doing  of  that  work  again.      O  lost. 
Lost    world  ! "      And    while  he  prayed,  the  daylight 
dawned. 

And  Noah  went  up  into  the  ship,  and  sat 
Before  the  Lord.     And  all  was  still ;  and  now 
In  that  great  quietness  the  sun  came  up. 
And  there  were  marks  across  it,  as  it  were 
The  shadow  of  a  Hand  upon  the  sun,  — 
Three  fingers  dark  and  dread,  and  afterward 
There  rose  a  white  thick  mist,  that  peacefully 
Folded  the  fixir  earth  in  her  funeral  shroud,  — 
The  earth  that  gave  no  token,  save  that  now 
There  fell  a  little  trembling  under  foot. 

And  Noah  went  down,  and  took  and  hid  his  face 
Behind  his  mantle,  saying,  "  I  have  made 
Great  preparation,  and  it  may  be  yet. 


i 


I 


$ 


A    STORY    OF    DOOM.  227 

Beside  my  house,  ■whom  I  did  charge  to  come 

This  day  to  meet  me,  there  may  enter  in 

Many  that  yesternight  thought  scorn  of  all 

My  bidding."     And  because  the  fog  was  thick, 

He  said,  "  Forbid  it,  Heaven,  if  such  there  be, 

That  they  should  miss  the  way."     And  even  then 

There  was  a  noise  of  weeping  and  lament ; 

The  words  of  them  that  were  aflrighted,  yea, 

And  cried  for  grief  of  heart.     There  came  to  him 

The  mother  and  her  children,  and  they  cried, 

"  Speak,  father,  what  is  this  ?  What  hast  thou  done  V  " 

And  when  he  lifted  up  his  face,  he  saw 

Japhet,  his  well-beloved,  where  he  stood 

Apart ;  and  Amarant  leaned  upon  -his  breast, 

And  hid  her  face,  for  she  was  sore  afraid  ; 

And  lo !  the  robes  of  her  betrothal  gleamed 

AVhite  in  the  deadly  gloom. 

And  at  his  feet 
The  wives  of  his  two  other  sons  did  kneel, 
And  wring  their  hands. 

One  cried,  "  O,  speak  to  us ; 
We  are  affrighted  ;  we  have  dreamed  a  dream, 
Each  to  herself.     For  me,  I  saw  in  mine 


228  A    STORY   OF    DOOM. 

The  gi-ave  old  angels,  like  to  shepherds,  walk, 
Much  cattle  following  them.     Thy  daughter  looked, 
And  they  did  enter  here." 

The  other  lay 
And  moaned,  "  Alas  !  O  father,  for  my  dream 
Was  evil :  lo,  I  heard  when  it  was  dark, 
I  heard  two  wicked  ones  contend  for  me. 
One  said,  '  And  wherefore  should  this  woman  live, 
When  only  for  her  children,  and  for  her, 
Is  woe  and  degradation  ?  '     Then  he  laughed, 
The  other  crying,  '  Let  alone,  O  Prince  ; 
Hinder  her  not  to  live  and  bear  much  seed. 
Because  I  hate  her.'  " 

But  he  said,  "  Rise  up, 
Daughters  of  Noah,  for  I  have  learned  no  words 
To  comfort  you."     Then  spake  her  lord  to  her, 
"  Peace !  or  I  swear  that  for  thy  dream  myself 
Will  hate  thee  also." 

And  Niloiya  said, 
"  My  sons,  if  one  of  you  will  hear  my  words. 
Go  now,  look  out,  and  tell  me  of  the  day, 
I  low  fares  it  ?  " 

And  the  fateful  darkness  grew. 
But  Shem  went  up  to  do  his  mother's  will ; 


A   STORY   OF   DOOM.  229 

And  all  was  one  as  though  the  frighted  earth 

Quivered  and  fell  a-trembling  ;  then  they  hid 

Their  faces  every  one,  till  he  returned, 

And  spake  not.     "  Nay,"  they  cried,  "  what  hast  thou 

seen  ? 
O,  is  it  come  to  this  ?  "     He  answered  them, 
"  The  door  is  shut." 


4 


CONTRASTED    SONGS. 


SAILING   BEYOND    SEAS. 
(Old  Style.) 

METHOUGHT  the  stars  were  blinking  bright, 
And  the  old  brig's  sails  unfurled ; 
I  said,  "  I  •will  sail  to  my  love  this  night 

At  the  other  side  of  the  world." 
I  stepped  aboard  —  we  sailed  so  fast  — 

The  sun  shot  up  from  the  bourne ; 
But  a  dove  that  perched  upon  the  mast 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 
O  fair  dove  !   O  fond  dove  ! 

And  dove  with  the  white  breast, 
Let  me  alone,  the  dream  is  my  own. 
And  my  heart  is  full  of  rest.    • 


My  true  love  fares  on  this  great  hill, 
Feeding  his  sheep  for  aye ; 


CONTRASTED    SONGS.  231 

I  looked  in  his  but,  but  all  was  still, 

My  love  was  gone  away. 
I  went  to  gaze  in  the  forest  creek, 

And  the  dove  mourned  on  apace ; 
No  flame  did  flash,  nor  feir  blue  reek 
Rose  up  to  show  me  his  place. 
O  last  love  !  O  first  love  ! 

My  love  with  the  true  heart, 
To  think  I  have  come  to  this  your  home, 
And  yet  —  we  are  apart ! 

My  love  !     He  stood  at  my  right  hand, 

His  eyes  were  grave  and  sweet. 
Methought  he  said,  "  In  this  far  land, 

O,  is  it  thus  we  meet  ? 
Ah,  maid  most  dear,  I  am  not  here  ; 

I  have  no  place  —  no  part  — 
No  dwelling  more  by  sea  or  shore. 
But  only  in  thy  heart." 

O  fair  dove  !  O  fond  dove  ! 

Till  night  rose  over  the  bourne, 
The  dove  on  the  mast,  as  we  sailed  fast, 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 


232  CONTRASTED   SONGS. 


REMONSTRANCE. 


I 


Daughters  of  Eve  !  your  mother  did  not  well  : 
She  laid  the  apple  in  your  father's  hand, 

And  we  have  read,  O  wonder  !  what  befell,  — 
The  man  was  not  deceived,  nor  yet  could  stand ; 

He  chose  to  lose,  for  love  of  her,  his  throne,  — 
With  her  could  die,  but  could  not  live  alone. 

Daughters  of  Eve  !  he  did  not  fall  so  low, 
Nor  fall  so  far,  as  that  sweet  woman  fell ; 

For  something  better,  than  as  gods  to  know, 
That  husband  in  that  home  left  off  to  dwell : 

For  this,  till  love  be  reckoned,  less  than  lore, 
Shall  man  be  first  and  best  forevermore. 

Daughters  of  Eve !  it  was  for  your  dear  sake 
The  world's  first  hero  died  an  uncrown'd  king ; 

But  God's  great  pity  touched  the  grand  mistake. 
And  made  his  married  love  a  sacred  thing  : 

For  yet  his  nobler  sons,  if  aught  be  true. 
Find  the  lost  Eden  in  their  love  to  you. 


CONTRASTKD   SONGS.  233 


SONG  FOR  THE  NIGHT   OF   CHRIST'S 
RESURRECTION. 

►  (A  Humble  Imitation.) 

"  And  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave." 

It  is  the  noon  of  night, 

And  the  world's  Great  Light 
Gone  out,  she  widow-hke  doth  carry  her : 

The  moon  hath  veiled  her  face, 

Nor  looks  on  that  dread  place 
Where  He  lieth  dead  in  sealed  sepulchre ; 

And  heaven  and  hades,  emptied,  lend 
Their  flocking  multitudes  to  watch  and  wait  the  end. 

Tier  above  tier  they  rise. 

Their  wings  new  line  the  skies. 
And  shed  out  comforting  light  among  the  stars  ; 

But  they  of  the  other  place 

The  heavenly  signs  deface. 
The  gloomy  brand  of  hell  their  brightness  mars ; 

Yet  high  they  sit  in  throned  state, — 
It  is  the  hour  of  darkness  to  them  dedicate. 


jsSi  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

And  first  and  highest  set, 

"Where  the  black  shades  are  met, 
■f  nt  lord  of  night  and  hades  leans  him  down ; 

His  gleaming  eyeballs  show 

More  awful  than  the  glow 
Which  hangeth  by  the  points  of  his  dread  crown  } 

And  at  his  feet,  where  lightnings  play, 
The  fatal  sisters  sit  and  weep,  and  curse  their  day. 

Lo !  one,  with  eyes  all  wide. 

As  she  were  sight  denied, 
Sits  blindly  feeling  at  her  distaff  old ; 

One,  as  distraught  with  woe, 

Letting  the  spindle  go, 
Her  star  y-sprinkled  gown  doth  shivering  fold  ; 

And  one  right  mournful  hangs  her  head. 
Complaining,  "  Woe  is  me !  I  may  not  cut  the  thread. 

"  All  men  of  every  birth, 

Yea,  great  ones  of  the  earth. 
Kings  and  their  couninllors,  have  I  drawn  down  ; 

But  I  am  held  of  Thee,  — 

Why  dost  Thou  trouble  me, 
To  bring  me  up,  dead  Iving,  that  keep'st  Thy 
crown  ? 


COXTKASTED    SOXGS.  235 

Yet  for  all  courtiers  hast  but  ten 
Lowly,  unlettered,  Galilean  fishermen. 

"  Olympian  heights  are  bare 

Of  whom  men  worshipped  there, 
Immortal  feet  their  snows  may  print  no  more ; 

Their  stately  powers  below 
^       Lie  desolate,  nor  know 
This  thirty  years  Thessalian  grove  or  shore ; 

But  I  am  elder  far  than  they ;  — 
Where  is  the  sentence  writ  that  I  must  pass  away  'i 

"  Art  thou  come  up  for  this. 

Dark  regent,  awful  Dis  ? 
And  hast  thou  moved  the  deep  to  mark  our  ending  ? 

And  stirred  the  dens  beneath 

To  see  us  eat  of  death. 
With  all  the  scoffing  heavens  toward  us  bending  ? 

Help  !  powers  of  ill,  see  not  us  die  !  " 
But  neither  demon  dares,  nor  angel  deigns,  reply. 

Her  sisters,  fallen  on  sleep, 
Fade  in  the  upper  deep. 
And  their  grim  lord  sits  on,  in  doleful  trance  ; 


236  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

Till  her  black  veil  she  rends, 
And  with  her  death-shriek  bends 
Downward  the  terrors  of  her  countenance ; 

Then,  whelmed  in  night  and  no  more  seen, 
They  leave  the ,  world  a  doubt  if  ever  such  have  been. 

And  the  winged  armies  twain 

Their  awful  watch  maintain  ; 
They  mark  the  earth  at  rest  with  her  Great  Dead. 

Behold,  from  Antres  wide. 

Green  Atlas  heave  his  side ; 
His  moving  woods  their  scarlet  clusters  shed, 

The  swathing  coif  his  front  that  cools. 
And  tawny  lions  lapping  at  his  palm-edged  pools. 


Then  like  a  heap  of  snow, 

Lying  where- grasses  grow. 
See  glimmering,  while  the  moony  lustres  creep, 

Mild-mannered  Athens,  dight 

In  dewy  marbles  white. 
Among  her  goddesses  and  gods  asleej^; 

And,  swaying  on  a  purple  sea, 
The  many  moored  galleys  clustering  at  her  quay. 


COXTKASTKD   SONGS.  237 

Also,  'neath  palm-trees'  shade, 

Amid  their  camels  laid. 
The  pastoral  tribes  with  all  their  flocks  at  rest ; 

Like  to  those  old-world  folk 

With  whom  two  angels  broke 
The  bread  of  men  at  Abram's  courteous  'quest, 

When,  listening  as  they  prophesied, 
His  desert  princess,  being  reproved,  her  laugh  denied. 

Or  from  the  Morians'  land 

See  woi-shipped  Nilus  bland, 
Taking  the  silver  road  lie  gave  the  world, 

To  wet  his  ancient  shrine 

With  waters  held  divine. 
And  touch  his  temple  steps  with  wavelets  curled. 

And  list,  ere  darkness  change  to  gray, 
Old  minstrel-throated  Memnon  chanting  in  the  day. 

Moreover,  Indian  glades, 

Where  kneel  the  sun-swart  maids. 

On  Gunga's  flood  their  votive  flowers  to  throw, 
And  launch  i'  the  sultry  night 
Their  burning  cressets  bright,  « 

Most  like  a  fleet  of  stars  that  southing  go. 


238  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

Till  on  her  bosom  prosperously 
She  rioats  them  shining  forth  to  sail  the  lulled  sea. 

Nor  bend  they  not  their  eyn 

Where  the  watch-fires  shine, 
By  shepherds  fed,  on  hills  of  Bethlehem  : 

They  mai-k,  in  goodly  wise, 

The  city  of  David  rise. 
The  gates  and  towers  of  rare  Jerusalem ; 

And  hear  the  'scaped  Kedron  fret, 
And  night  dews  dropping  from  the  leaves  of  Olivet. 

But  now  the  setting  moon 
To  curtained  lands  must  soon. 
In  her  obedient  fashion,  minister  ; 
She  first,  as  loath  to  go. 
Lets  her  last  silver  flow 
Upon  her  Master's  sealed  sepulchre ; 

And  trees  that  in  the  garden  spread, 
She  klsseth  all  for  sake  of  Ilis  low-jyinnf  head, 

Then  'neath  the  rim  goes  down  ; 
And  night  with  darker  frown 
Sinks  on  the  fateful  garden  watchdd  long ; 


COXTKASTED   SONGS.  239 

When  some  despairing  eyes, 
Far  in  the  murky  skies,' 
The  unwished  waking  by  their  gloom  foretell ; 
And  blackness  up  the  welkin  swings, 
And  drinks  the  mild  effulgence  from  celestial  wings. 

Last,  with  amazed  cry. 
The  hosts  asunder  fly. 
Leaving  an  empty  gulf  of  blackest  hue ; 
Whence  straightway  shooteth  down, 
By  the  Great  Father  thrown, 
A  mighty  angel,  strong  and  dread  to  view  ; 
And  at  his  fall  the  rocks  are  rent, 
The  waiting  world    doth   quake  with  mortal   tremble- 
ment ; 

The  regions  far  and  near 

Quail  with  a  pause  of  fear, 
More  terrible  than  aught  since  time  began  ; 

The  winds,  that  dare  not  fleet, 

Drop  at  his  awful  feet. 
And  in  its  bed"  wails  the  wide  ocean  ; 

The  flower  of  dawn  forbears  to  blow, 
And  the  oldest  running  river  cannot  skill  to  flow. 


240  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

At  stand,  by  that  dread  place, 
He  lifts  his  radiant  face, 
And  looks  to  heaven  with  reverent  love  and  fear ; 
Then,  while  the  welkin  quakes, 
And  muttering  thunder  breaks, 
And  lightnings  shoot  and  ominous  meteors  drear, 
And  all  the  daunted  earth  doth  moan. 
He   from   the   doors   of    death   rolls   back  the  sealed 
stone.  — 

-^  In  regal  quiet  deep, 

Lo,  One  new  waked  from  sleep  ! 
Behold,  He  standeth  in  the  rock-hewn  door ! 

Thy  children  shall  not  die  — 

Peace,  peace,  thy  Lord  is  by ! 
He  liveth ! —  they  shall  live  forevermore. 

Peace !  lo,  He  lifts  a  priestly  hand. 
And  blesseth  all  the  sons  of  men  in  every  land. 

Then,  with  great  dread  and  wail. 
Fall  down,  like  storms  of  hail. 
The  legions  of  the  lost  in  fearful  wise ; 
And  they  whose  blissful  race 
Peoples  the  better  place 


CONTUASTED    SONGS.  241 

Lift  up  tbeir  wings  to  cover  their  fair  eyes, 
And  through  the  waxing  saffron  brede, 
Till  they  are  lost  iu  light,  recede,  and  yet  recede. 

So  while  the  fields  are  dim, 
And  the  red  sun  his  rim 
First  heaves,  in  token  of  his  reign  benign, 
All  stars  the  most  admired, 
Into  their  blue  retired, 
Lie  hid, —  the  faded  moon  forgets  to  shine, — 
And,  hurrying  down  the  sphery  way, 
Night  flies,  and   sweeps  her  shadow  from   the   paths 
of  day. 

But  look!  the  Saviour  blest, 

Calm  after  solemn  rest. 
Stands  in  the  garden  'neath  His  olive-boughs  ; 

The  earliest  smile  of  day 

Doth  on  His  vesture  play. 
And  light  the  majesty  of  His  still  brows  ; 

While  angels  hang  with  wings  outspread. 
Holding  the  new-won  crown  above  His  saintly  head. 


242  CONTRASTED   SONGS. 


SONG   OF  MARGARET. 

Ay,  I  saw  her,  we  have  met,  — 

Married  eyes  how  sweet  they  be,  — 
Are  you  happier,  Margaret, 

Than  you  might  have  been  with  me  ? 
Silence  !  make  no  more  ado  ! 

Did  she  think  I  should  forget  ? 
Matters  nothing,  though  I  knew, 

Margaret,  Margaret. 

Once  those  eyes,  full  sweet,  full  shy, 

Told  a  certain  thing  to  mine; 
What  they  told  me  I  put  by, 

O,  so  careless  of  the  sign. 
Such  an  easy  thing  to  take, 

And  I  did  not  want  it  then ; 
Fool !     I  wish  my  heart  would  break, 

Scorn  is  hard  on  hearts  of  men. 

Scorn  of  self  is  bitter  work,  — 
Each  of  us  has  felt  it  now : 


CONTRASTED   SONGS.  243 

Bluest  skies  she  counted  mirk, 

Self-betrayed  of  eyes  and  brow ; 
As  for  me,  I  went  my  way, 

And  a  better  man  drew  nigh, 
Fain  to  earn,  with  long  essay, 

What  the  winner's  hand  threw  by. 

Matters  not  in  deserts  old, 

What  was  born,  and  waxed,  and  yearned, 
Year  to  year  its  meaning  told, 

I  am  come,  —  its  deeps  are  learned,  — 
Come,  but  there  is  naught  to  say,  — 

Married  eyes  with  mine  have  met. 
Silence !  O,  I  had  my  day, 

Margaret,  Margaret. 


244  CONTRASTED   SONGS. 


SONG  OF  THE   GOING  AWAY. 

"  Old  man,  upon  the  green  hillside, 
With  yellow  flowers  besprinkled  o'er, 

How  long  in  silence  wilt  thou  bide 
At  this  low  stone  door  ? 

"  I  stoop :  within  't  is  dark  and  stil/ ; 

But  shadowy  paths  methinks  there  be, 
And  lead  they  far  into  the  hill  ?  " 

"  Traveller,  come  and  see." 

"'Tis  dark,  'tis  cold,  and  hung  with  ffJ.oom; 

I  care  not  now  within  to  stay ; 
For  thee  and  me  is  scarcely  room, 

I  will  hence  away." 

"  Not  so,  not  so,  thou  youthful  guest, 
Thy  foot  shall  issue  forth  no  more : 

Behold  the  chamber  of  thy  rest, 
And  the  closin<r  door  !  " 


CONTRASTED   SONGS.  245 

"  O,  have  I  'scaped  the  whistling  ball, 
And  striven  on  smoky  fields  of  fight, 

And  scaled  the  'leaguered  city's  wall 
In  the  dangerous  night ; 

**  And  borne  my  life  unharmed  still 
Through  foaming  gulfs  of  yeasty  spray, 

To  yield  it  on  a  grassy  hill 
At  the  noon  of  day  ?  " 

"  Peace !     Say  thy  prayers,  and  go  to  sleep, 
Till  some  time,  One  my  seal  shall  break, 

And  deep  shall  answer  unto  deep. 
When  He  crieth,  '  Awake  ! ' " 


246  CONTRASTED   SONGS. 

A  LILY  AND   A  LUTE. 

{Song  of  the   uncommunicated  Ideal.) 

I. 

I  OPENED  the  eyes  of  my  soul. 

And  behold, 
A  white  river-lily :  a  lily  awsfke,  and  aware  — 
For  she  set  her  face  upward  —  aware  how  in  scarlet  and 

gold 
A  long  wrinkled  cloud,  left  behind  of  the  wandering 
air, 
Lay  over  with  fold  upon  fold. 
With  fold  upon  fold. 

And  the  blushing  sweet  shame  of  the  cloud  made  her 

also  ashamed. 
The  white  river-lily,  that  suddenly  knew  she  was  fair ; 
And  over  the  far-away  mountains   that  no  man  hath 

named, 
And  that  no  foot  hath  trod, 
Flung  down  out  of  heavenly  places,  there  fell,  as  it 

were, 


CONTRASTED   SOXGS.  247 

A  rose-bloom,  a  token  of  love,  that  should  make  them 

endure, 
Withdrawn  in  snow  silence  forever,  who  keep  them^' 

selves  pure. 
And  look  up  to  God. 

Then  I  said,  "  In  rosy  air, 
Cradled  on  thy  reaches  fair, 
While  the  blushing  early  ray 
Whitens  into  perfect  day, 
River-lily,  sweetest  known. 
Art  thou  set  for  me  alone  ? 
Nay,  but  I  will  bear  thee  far. 
Where  yon  clustering  steeples  are, 
And  the  bells  ring  out  o'erhead, 
And  the  stated  prayers  are  said  ; 
And  the  busy  farmers  pace. 
Trading  in  the  market-place ; 
And  the  country  lasses  sit 
By  their  butter,  praising  it ; 
And  the  latest  news  is  told, 
While  the  fruit  and  cream  are  sold ; 
,  And  the  friendly  gossips  greet, 

Up  and  down  the  sunny  street. 


248  CONTRASTED    SOXGS. 

For,"  I  said,  "I  have  not  met, 
White  one,  any  folk  as  yet 
Who  would  send  no  blessing  up, 
Looking  on  a  face  like  thine ; 
For  thou  art  as  Joseph's  cup. 
And  by  thee  might  they  divine. 

"  Nay  !  but  thou  a  spirit  art ; 
Men  shall  take  thee  in  the  mart 
.For  the  ghost  of  their  best  thought, 
Raised  at  noon,  and  near  them  brought ; 
Or  the  prayer  they  made  last  night, 
Set  before  them  all  in  white." 

And  I  put  out  my  rash  hand. 
For  I  thought  to  draw  to  land 
The  white  lily.     Was  it  fit 
Such  a  blossom  should  expand, 
Fair  enough  for  a  world's  wonder, 
And  no  mortal  gather  it  ? 
No.     I  strove,  and  it  went  under. 
And  I  drew,  but  it  went  down ; 
And  the  water-weeds'  long  tresses, 
And  the  overlapping  cresses, 


CONTRASTED    SONGS.  249 

Sullied  its  admired  crown. 
Then  along  the  river  strand, 
Trailing,  wrecked,  it  came  to  land, 
Of  its  beauty  half  despoiled, 
And  its  snowy  pureness  soiled  : 
O  !  I  took  it  in  my  hand,  — 
You  will  never  see  it  now, 
White  and  golden  as  it  grew  : 
No,  I  cannot  show  it  you. 
Nor  the  cheerful  town  endow 
With  the  freshness  of  its  brow. 

If  a  royal  painter,  great 
With  the  colors  dedicate 
To  a  dove's  neck,  a  sea-bight, 
And  the  flickerings  over  white 
Mountain  summits  far  away,  — 
One  content  to  give  his  mind 
To  the  enrichment  of  mankind, 
And  the  laying  up  of  light 
In  men's  houses,  —  on  that  day, 
Could  have  passed  in  kingly  mood, 
Would  he  ever  have  endued 
Canvas  with  the  peerless  thing, 


loU  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

In  the  grace  that  it  did  bring, 
And  the  light  that  o'er  it  flowed, 
With  the  pureness  that  it  showed, 
And  the  pureness  that  it  meant  ? 
Could  he  skill  to  make  it  seen 
As  he  saw  V     For  this,  I  ween, 
He  were  likewise  impotent. 


I  opened  the  doors  of  my  heart. 

And  behold, 
There  was  music  within  and  a  song, 
And  echoes  did  feed  on  the  sweetness,  repeating  it  long. 
I  opened  the  doors  of  my  heart.    And  behold. 
There  was  music  that  played  itself  out  in  seolian  notes ; 
Then  was  heard,  as  a  far-away  bell  at  long  intervals 
tolled. 
That  murmurs  and  floats, 
And  presently  dieth,  forgotten  of  forest  and  wold, 
And  comes  in  all  passion  again  and  a  tremblement  soft;, 

That  maketh  tlie  listener  full  oft 
To  whisper,  "  Ah  !  would  I  might  hear  it  forever  and 
aye, 


CONTRASTED   SONGS.  251 

When  I  toll  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
When  I  walk  in  the  cold." 

I  opened  the  door  of  my  heart.     And  behold, 
There  was  music  within,  and  a  song. 
But  while  I  was  hearkening,  lo,  blackness  without,  thick 

and  strong. 
Came  up  and  came  over,  and  all  that  sweet  fluting  was 
drowned, 
I  could  hear  it  no  more  ; 
For  the  welkin  was  moaning,  the  waters  were  stirred  on 
the  shore, 
And  trees  in  the  dark  all  around 
Were  shaken.     It  thundered.     "  Hark,  hark  !   there  is 

thunder  to-night ! 
The  sullen  long  wave  rears  her  head,  and  comes  down 

with  a  will ; 
The  awful  white  tongues  are  let  loose,  and  the  stars  are 

all  dead ;  — 
There  is  thunder  !  it  thunders  !  and  ladders  of  light 

Run  up.     There  is  thunder  !  "  I  said, 
"  Loud  thunder !  it  thunders  !  and  up  in  the  dark  over- 
head, 
A  down-pouring  cloud,  (there  is  thunder  !)   a  down- 
pouring  cloud 


252  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

Hails  out  her  fierce  message,  and  quivers  the  deep  in  its 

bed, 
And  cowers  the  earth  held  at  bay  ;  and  they  mutter 
aloud, 
.  And  pause  with  an  ominous  tremble,  till,  great  in  their 
rage, 
The  heavens  and  earth  come  together,  and  meet  with 

crash  ; 
And  the  fight  is  so  fell  as  if  Time  had  come  down  with 
the  flash, 
And  the  story  of  life  was  all  read, 
And  the  Giver  had  turned  the  last  page. 

Now  their  bar  the  pent  water-floods  lash, 
And  the  forest  trees  give  out  their  language  austere 
with  great  age ; 
And  there  flieth  o'er  moor  and  o'er  hill. 
And  there  heaveth  at  intervals  wide. 
The  long  sob  of  nature's  great  passion,  as  loath  to  sub- 
side. 
Until  quiet  drop  down  on  the  tide, 
And  mad  Echo  hath  moaned  herself  still. 

Lo  !  or  ever  I  was  'ware, 
In  the  silence  of  the  air. 


CONTRASTED    SONGS.  253 

JThrough  my  heart's  wide-open  door, 
Music  floated  forth  once  more, 
Floated  to  the  workl's  dark  rim, 
And  looked  over  with  a  hymn  ; 
Then  came  home  with  flutings  fine, 
A-nd  discoursed  in  tones  divine 
Of  a  certain  grief  of  mine  ; 
And  went  downward  and  went  in, 
Ghmpses  of  my  soul  to  win, 
And  discovered  such  a  deep 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  weep. 
For  it  lay,  a  land-looked  sea, 
Fathomless  and  dim  to  me. 

O  the  song  !  it  came  and  went, 
"Went  and  came. 

I  have  not  learned 
Half  the  lore  whereto  it  yearned. 
Half  the  magic  that  it  meant. 
AVater  booming  in  a  cave  ; 
Or  the  swell  of  some  long  wave, 
Setting  in  from  unrevealed 
Countries  ;  or  a  foreign  tongue, 
Sweetly  talked  and  deftly  sung, 


254  CONTRASTED   SONGS. 

While  the  meaning  is  half  sealed  ; 
May  be  like  it.     You  have  heard 
Also ;  —  can  you  find  a  word 
For  the  naming  of  such  song  ? 
No ;  a  name  would  do  it  wrong. 
You  have  heard  it  in  the  night, 
In  the  dropping  rain's  despite, 
In  the  midnight  darkness  deep. 
When  the  children  were  asleep, 
And  the  wife  —  no,  let  that  be ; 
She  asleep  !  She  knows  right  well 
What  the  song  to  you  and  me, 
While  we  breathe,  can  never  tell  •, 
She  hath  heard  its  faultless  flow. 
Where  the  roots  of  music  grow. 

AVhile  I  listened,  like  young  birds, 
Hints  were  fluttering  ;  almost  words  — 
Leaned  and  loaned,  and  nearer  came;  — 
Everything  had  changed  its  name. 

Sorrow  was  a  ship,  I  found. 
Wrecked  with  them  that  in  her  are, 
On  an  island  richer  far 


CONTRASTED    SONGS.  255 

Than  the  port  where  they  were  bound. 
Fear  was  but  the  awful  boom 
Of  the  old  great  bell  of  doom, 
Tolling,  far  from  earthly  air, 
For  all  worlds  to  go  to  prayer. 
Pain,  that  to  us  mortal  clings, 
But  the  pushing  of  our  wings. 
That  we  have  no  use  for  yet, 
And  the  uprooting  of  our  feet 
From  the  soil  where  they  are  set, 
And  the  land  we  reckon  sweet. 
Love  in  growth,  the  grand  deceit 
Whereby  men  the  perfect  greet ; 
Love  in  wane,  the  blessing  sent 
To  be  (howsoe'er  it  went) 
Nevermore  with  earth  content. 

O,  full  sweet,  and  O,  full  high, 
Ran  that  music  up  the  sky  ; 
But  I  cannot  sing  it  you, 
More  than  I  can  make  you  view* 
With  my  paintings  labiai, 
Sitting  up  in  a-K'ful  row, 
Whi*-e  old  m-»n  :ai&jes'^ic'^. 


256  CONTRASTED    SONGS. 

Mountains,  in  their  gowns  of  snow, 
Ghosts  of  kings  ;  as  my  two  eyes, 
Looking  over  speckled  skies, 
See  them  now.     About  their  knees, 
Half  in  haze,  there  stands  at  ease 
A  great  army  of  green  hills. 
Some  bareheaded  ;  and,  behold, 
Small  green  mosses  creep  on  some. 
Those  be  mighty  forests  old  ; 
And  white  avalanches  come 
Through  yon  rents,  where  now  distils 
Sheeny  silver,  pouring  down 
To  a  tune  of  old  renown. 
Cutting  narrow  pathways  through 
Gentian  belts  of  airy  blue. 
To  a  zone  where  starwort  blows, 
And  long  reaches  of  the  rose. 

So,  that  haze  all  left  behind, 
Down  the  chestnut  forests  wind. 
Past  yon  jagged  spires,  where  yet 
Foot  of  man  was  never  set ; 
Past  a  castle  yawning  wide. 
With  a  great  breach  in  its  side. 


CONTRASTED    SONGS.  257 

To  a  nest-like  valley,  where, 
Like  a  sparrow's  egg  in  hue. 
Lie  two  lakes,  and  teach  the  true 
Color  of  the  sea-maid's  hair. 

What  beside  ?     The  world  beside  ! 
Drawing  down  and  down  to  greet 
Cottage  clusters  at  our  feet,  — 
Every  scent  of  summer  tide,  — 
Flowery  pastures  all  aglow  ; 
(Men  and  women  mowing  go 
Up  and  down  them  ;)  also  soft 
Floating  of  the  film  aloft. 
Fluttering  of  the  leaves  alow. 
Is  this  told  ?     It  is  not  told. 
Where 's  the  danger  ?  where  's  the  cold 
Slippery  danger  up  the  steep  ? 
AVhere  yon  shadow  fallen  asleep  ? 
Chirping  bird  and  tumbling  spray, 
Light,  work,  laughter,  scent  of  bay, 
Peace,  and  echo,  where  are  they  ? 

Ah,  they  sleep,  sleep  all  untold ; 
Memory  must  their  grace  enfold 


258  CONTRASTED   SONGS. 

Silently  ;  and  that  high  song 
Of  the  heart,  it  doth  belong 
To  the  hearers.     Not  a  whit, 
Though  a  chief  musician  heard, 
Could  he  make  a  tune  for  it. 

Though  a  lute  fell  deftly  strung, 
And  the  sweetest  bird  e'er  sung, 
Could  have  tried  it,  —  O,  the  lute 
For  that  wondrous  song  were  mute, 
And  the  bird  would  do  her  part, 
Falter,  fail,  and  break  her  heart, — 
Break  her  heart,  and  furl  her  wings, 
On  the  unexpressive  strings. 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

(0)1  the  Advantages  of  the  Poetical  Temperamenf.) 

A>f  IMPERFECT  FABLE  WITH  A  DOUBTFVL  310RAL. 

O  HAPPY  Gladys  i  I  rejoice  with  her, 
For  Gladys  saw  the  island. 

It  was  thus : 
They  gave  a  day  for  pleasure  in  the  school 
Where  Gladys  taught ;  and  all  the  other  girls 
Were  taken  out  to  picnic  in  a  wood. 
But  it  was  said,  "  We  think  it  were  not  well 
That  little  Gladys  should  acquire  a  taste 
For  pleasure,  going  about,  and  needless  change. 
It  would  not  suit  her  station  :  discontent 
Wight  come  of  it ;  and  all  her  duties  now 
She  does  so  pleasantly,  that  we  were  best 
To  keep  her  humble."     So  they  said  to  her, 
"  Gladys,  we  shall  not  want  you,  all  to-day. 
Look,  you  are  free  ;  you  need  not  sit  at  work  : 
No,  you  may  take  a  long  and  pleasant  walk 


260  GLADYS   AND   HER   ISLAND. 

Over  the  sea-cliff,  or  upon  the  beach 
Among  the  visitors." 

Then  Gladys  blushed 
For  joy,  and  thanked  them.     What !  a  holiday, 
A  whole  one,  for  herself !  How  good,  how  kind  I 
With  that,  the  mai'shalled  carriages  drove  off; 
And  Gladys,  sobered  with  her  weight  of  joy, 
Stole  out  beyond  the  groups  upon  the  beach  — 
The  children  with  their  wooden  spades,  the  band 
That  played  for  lovers,  and  the  sunny  stir 
Of  cheerful  life  and  leisure  —  to  the  rocks, 
For  these  she  wanted  most,  and  there  was  time 
To  mark  them  ;  how  like  ruined  organs  prone 
They  lay,  or  leaned  their  giant  fluted  pipes, 
And  let  the  great  white-crested  reckless  wave 
Beat  out  their  booming  melody. 

The  sea 
Was  filled  with  light ;  in  clear  blue  caverns  curled 
The  breakers,  and  they  ran,  and  seemed  to  romp, 
As  playing  at  some  rough  and  dangerou=!  game. 
While  all  the  nearer  waves  rushed  in  to  help. 
And  all  the  farther  heaved  their  heads  to  poop, 
And  tossed  the  fishing-boats.     Then  Gladys  laughed, 


GLADYS    ANT)    HER    ISLAND.  261 

And  said,  "  O  happy  tide,  to  be  so  lost 
In  sunshine,  that  one  dare  not  look  at  it; 
And  lucky  cliffs,  to  be  so  brown  and  warm  ; 
And  yet  how  lucky  are  the  sliadows,  too, 
That  lurk  beneath  their  ledges.     It  is  strange, 
That  in  remembrance  thou-^h  T  lay  them  up, 
They  are  forever,  when  I  come  to  them, 
Better  than  I  had  thought.     O,  something  yet 
I  had  forgotten.     Oft  I  say,  '  At  least 
This  picture  is  imprinted  ;  thus  and  thus, 
The  sharpened  serried  jags  run  up,  run  out. 
Layer  on  layer.'     And  I  look  —  up  —  up  — 
High,  higher  up  again,  till  far  aloft 
They  cut  into  their  etiher —  brown,  and  clear, 
And  perfect.     And  1,  saying,  '  This  is  mine, 
To  keep,'  retire ;  but  shortly  come  again. 
And  they  confound  me  with  a  glorious  change. 
The  low  sun  out  of  rain-clouds  stares  at  them ; 
They  redden,  and  their  edges  drip  with  —  what  ? 
I  know  not,  but  't  is  red.     It  leaves  no  stain. 
For  the  next  morning  they  stand  up  like  ghosts 
In  a  sea-shroud,  and  fifty  thousand  mews 
Sit  there,  in  long  white  files,  and  chatter  on, 
Like  silly  school-girls  in  their  silliest  mood. 


262  GLADYS   AND   HER    ISLAND. 

"  There  is  the  boulder  where  we  always  turn. 

O,  I  have  longed  to  pass  it ;  now  I  will. 

What  would  THEY  say?  for  one  must  slip  and  spring; 

*  Young  ladies  !  Gladys  !  I  am  shocked.     My  dears, 

Decorum,  if  you  please  :  turn  back  at  once. 

Gladys,  we  blame  you  most ;  you  should  have  looked 

Before  you.'     Then  they  sigh  —  how  kind  they  are  !  — 

'  What  will  become  of  you,  if  all  your  life 

You  look  a  long  way  off?  —  look  anywhere, 

And  everywhere,  instead  of  at  your  feet, 

And  where  they  carry  you  ! '     Ah,  well,  I  know 

It  is  a  pity,"  Gladys  said  ;  "  but  then 

We  cannot  all  be  wise  :  happy  for  me 

That  other  people  are. 

And  yet  I  wish  — 
For  snmetimes  very  right  and  serious  thoughts 
Come  to  me  —  I  do  wish  that  they  would  come 
When  they  are  wanted !  —  when  I  teach  the  sums 
On  rainy  days,  and  when  the  practising 
I  count  to,  and  the  din  goes  on  and  on. 
Still  the  same  tune  and  still  the  same  mistake, 
Then  I  am  wise  enough :  sometimes  I  feel 
Quite  old.     I  think  tliat  it  will  last,  and  say, 
'  Now  my  reflections  do  me  credit !  now 


GLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND.  263 

I  am  a  woman  ! '  and  I  wish  tliey  knew 

How  serious  all  my  duties  look  to  me. 

And  how  my  heart  hushed  down  and  shaded  lies, 

Just  like  the  sea  when  low,  convenient  clouds, 

Come  over,  and  drink  all  its  sparkles  up. 

But  does  it  last  ?     Perhaps,  that  very  day. 

The  front  door  opens  :  out  we  walk  in  pairs ; 

And  I  am  so  delighted  with  this  world. 

That  suddenly  has  grown,  being  new  washed, 

To  such  a  smiling,  clean,  and  thankful  world, 

And  with  a  tender  face  shining  through  tears, 

Looks  up  into  the  sometime  lowering  sky, 

That  has  been  angry,  but  is  reconciled. 

And  just  forgiving  her,  that  I  —  that  I  — 

O,  I  forget  myself:  what  matters  how ! 

And  then  I  hear  (but  always  kindly  said) 

Some  words  that  pain  me  so  —  but  just,  but  true  : 

'  For  if  your  place  in  this  establishment 

Be  but  subordinate,  and  if  your  birth 

Be  lowly,  it  the  more  behooves  —    Well,  well, 

No  more.     We  see  that  you  are  sorry.'     Yes ! 

I  am  always  soi'ry  then  ;  but  now  —  O,  now. 

Here  is  a  bight  more  beautiful  than  all." 


264  GLADYS    AND   HER   ISLAND. 

"  And  did  they  scold  lier,  tlien,  my  pretty  one  ? 
And  did  she  want  to  be  as  wise  as  they,  — 
To  bear  a  bucklered  heart  and  priggish  mind  ? 
Ay,  you  may  crow ;  she  did  !  but  no,  no,  no, 
The  night-time  will  not  let  her ;  all  the  stars 
Say  nay  to  that ;  the  old  sea  laughs  at  her. 
Why,  Gladys  is  a  child  ;  she  has  not  skill 
To  shut  herself  within  her  own  small  cell. 
And  build  the  door  up,  and  to  say,  '  Poor  me  ! 
I  am  a  prisoner ' ;  then  to  take  hewn  stones, 
And,  having  built  the  windows  up,  to  say, 
'  O,  it  is  dark  !  there  is  no  sunshine  here ; 
There  never  has  been.'  " 

Strange  !  how  very  strange  1 
A  woman  passing  Gladys  with  a  babe. 
To  whom  she  spoke  these  words,  and  only  looked 
Upon  the  babe,  who  crowed  and  pulled  her  curls, 
And  never  looked  at  Gladys,  never  once. 
"  A  simple  child,"  she  added,  and  went  by, 
"  To  want  to  change  her  greater  for  their  less  ; 
But  Gladys  shall  not  do  it,  no,  not  she  ; 
We  love  her  —  don't  we  ?  —  far  too  well  for  that. " 

Then  Gladys,  Hushed  with  shame  and  keen  surprise. 


I 


GLADYS   AND    UEU   ISLAND.  2G5 

"  How  could  slie  be  so  near,  and  I  not  know  ? 

And  have  I  spoken  out  my  thought  aloud  ? 

I  must  have  done,  forgetting.     It  is  well 

She  walks  so  fast,  for  I  am  hungry  now, 

And  here  is  water  cankering  down  the  cliff, 

And  here  a  shell  to  catch  it  with,  and  here 

The  round  plump  buns  they  gave  mc,  and  the  fruit. 

Now  she  is  gone  behind  the  rock.     O,  rare 

To  be  alone  !  "     So  Gladys  sat  her  down. 

Unpacked  her  little  basket,  ate  and  drank. 

Then  pushed  her  hands  into  the  warm  dry  sand, 

And  thought  the  earth  was  happy,  and  she  too 

"Was  going  round  with  it  in  happiness, 

That  holiday.     "  What  was  it  that  she  said  ?  " 

Quoth  Gladys,  cogitating ;  "  they  were  kind, 

Tiic  words  that  woman  spoke.     She  does  not  know  ! 

'  Her  greater  for  their  less,'  —  it  makes  me  laugh,  — 

But  yet,"  sighed  Gladys,  "  though  it  must  be  good 

To  look  and  to  admire,  one  should  not  wish 

To  steal  tueiu  virtues,  and  to  put  them  on, 

Like  feathers  from  another  wing  ;  beside, 

That  calm,  and  that  grave  consciousness  of  worth, 

AVlien  all  is  said,  would  little  suit  with  me, 

Who  am  not  worthy.     AVheu  oui-  thoughts  arc  born, 


266  GLADYS   AND    HER    ISLAND. 

Though  they  be  good  and  humble,  one  should  mind 
How  they  are  reared,  or  some  will  go  astray 
And  shame  their  mother.     Cain  and  Abel  both 
Were  only  once  removed  from  innocence. 
Why  did  I  envy  them  ?     That  was  not  good ; 
Yet  it  began  with  my  humility." 

But  as  she  spake,  lo,  Gladys  raised  her  eyes, 
And  right  before  her,  on  the  horizon's  edge, 
Behold,  an  island  !     First,  she  looked  away 
Along  the  solid  rocks  and  steadfast  shore, 
For  she  was  all  amazed,  believing  not, 
And  then  she  looked  again,  and  there  again 
Behold,  an  island  !     And  the  tide  had  turned, 
The  milky  sea  had  got  a  purple  rim. 
And  from  the  rim  that  mountain  island  rose. 
Purple,  with  two  high  peaks,  the  northern  peak 
The  higher,  and  with  fell  and  precipice, 
It  ran  down  steeply  to  the  water's  brink  ; 
But  all  the  southern  line  was  long  and  soft. 
Broken  with  tender  curves,  and,  as  she  thought, 
Covered  with  forest  or  with  sward.     But,  look ! 
The  sun  was  on  the  island  ;  and  he  showed 
On  either  peak  a  dazzling  cap  of  snow. 


GLADYS    AXD    HER    ISLAND.  267 

Then  Gladys  held  her  breath ;  she  said,  "  Indeed, 

Indeed  it  is  an  island :  how  is  this, 

I  never  saw  it  till  this  fortunate 

Rare  holiday  ?  "     And  while  she  strained  her  eyes, 

She  thought  that  it  began  to  fade  ;  but  not       ' 

To  change  as  clouds  do,  only  to  withdraw 

And  melt  into  its  azure ;  and  at  last. 

Little  by  little,  from  her  hungry  heart. 

That  longed  to  draw  things  marvellous  to  Itself, 

And  yearned  towards  the  riches  and  the  great 

Abundance  of  the  beauty  God  hath  made, 

It  passed  away.     Tears  started  in  her  eyes. 

And  when  they  dropt,  the  mountain  isle  was  gone  ; 

The  careless  sea  had  quite  forgotten  it. 

And  all  was  even  as  it  had  been  before. 

And  Gladys  wept,  but  there  was  luxury 

In  her  self-pity,  while  she  softly  sobbed, 

"  O,  what  a  little  while !  I  am  afraid 

I  shall  forget  that  purple  mountain  isle. 

The  lovely  hollows  atween  her  snow-clad  peaks, 

The  grace  of  her  upheaval  where  she  lay 

Well  up  against  the  open.     O  my  heart. 

Now  -I  remember  how  this  holiday 


268  GLADYS    AXD    IIER   ISLAND. 

Will  soon  be  done,  and  now  my  life  goes  on 

Not  fed  ;  and  only  in  the  noonday  walk 

Let  to  look  silently  at  what  it  wants^ 

Without  the  power  to  wait  or  pause  awhile, 

And  understand  and  draw  within  itself 

The  richness  of  the  earth.     A  holiday  ! 

How  few  I  have  !     I  spend  the  silent  time 

At  work,  while  all  their  pupils  are  gone  home, 

And  feel  myself  remote.     They  shine  apart ; 

They  are  great  planets,  I  a  little  orb ; 

My  little  orbit  far  within  their  own 

Turns,  and  approaches  not.     But  yet,  the  more 

1  am  alone  when  those  I  teach  return  ; 

For  they,  as  planets  of  some  other  sun, 

Not  mine,  have  paths  that  can  but  meet  my  ring 

Once  in  a  cycle.     O,  how  poor  I  am ! 

I  have  not  got  laid  up  in  tliis  blank  heart 

Any  indulgent  kisses  given  me 

Because  I  had  been  good,  or,  yet  more  sweet. 

Because  my  childhood  was  itself  a  good 

Attractive  thing  for  kisses,  tender  pi'aise. 

And  comforting.     An  orphan-school  at  best 

Is  a  cold  mother  in  the  winter  time, 

('T  was  mostly  winter  when  new  orphans  came,) 

An  umxg.uu.ul  aijtL.-.  In  the  spring. 


GLADYS    AND    IIEli    ISLAND.  2tJl> 

"  Yet  once  a  year  (I  did  mine  wrong)  Ave  went 
To  gather  cowslips.     How  we  thought  on  it 
Beforehand,  pacing,  pacing  the  didl  street, 
To  that  one  tree,  the  only  one  we  saw 
From  April,  —  if  the  cowslips  were  in  bloom 
So  early ;  or,  if  not,  from  opening  May 
Even  to  September.     Then  there  came  the  feast 
At  Epp'ng.     If  it  rained  that  day,  it  rained 
For  a  wliole  year  to  us ;  we  could  not  think 
Of  6elds  and  hawthorn  hedges,  and  the  leaves 
Fluttering,  but  still  it  rained,  and  ever  rained. 

"  Ah,  well,  but  I  am  here  ;  but  T  have  seen 
The  gay  goree  bushes  in  their  flowering  time  ; 
I  know  the  scent  of  bean-fields  ;  I  have  heard 
The  satisfying  murmur  of  the  main." 

The  woman  I  she  came  round  the  rock  again 

With  her  fair  baby,  and  she  sat  her  down 

By  Gladys,  murmuring,  "  Who  forbade  the  grass 

To  grow  by  visitations  of  the  dew  ? 

Who  said  in  ancient  time  to  the  desert  pool, 

'  Thou  shalt  not  wait  for  angel  visitors 

To  trouble  thy  still  water  '  ?     Must  we  bide 


270  GLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND. 

At  home  ?     The  lore,  beloved,  shall  fly  to  us 

On  a  pair  of  sumptuous  wings.     Or  may  we  breathe 

Without '?     O,  we  shall  draw  to  us  the  air 

That  times  and  mystery  feed  on.     This  shall  lay 

Unchidden  hands  u2)on  the  heart  o'  the  world, 

And  feel  it  beating.     Rivers  shall  run  on, 

Full  of  sweet  language  as  a  lover's  mouth, 

Delivering  of  a  tune  to  make  her  youth 

More  beautiful  than  wheat  when  it  is  green. 

"  What  else  ?  —  (O,  none  shall  envy  her  ! )  The  rain 

And  the  wild  weather  will  be  most  her  own. 

And  talk  with  her  o'  nights  ;  and  if  the  winds 

Have  seen  aught  wondrous,  they  will  tell  it  her 

In  a  mouthful  of  strange  moans,  —  will  bring  from  far. 

Her  ears  being  keen,  the  lowing  and  the  mad, 

Masterful  tramping  of  the  bison  herds. 

Tearing  down  headlong  with  their  bloodshot  eyes, 

In  savage  rifts  of  hair  ;  the  crack  and  creak 

Of  ice-floes  in  the  frozen  sea,  tlie  cry 

Of  the  white  bears,  all  in  a  dim  blue  world 

Mumbling  their  meals  by  twilight ;  or  the  rock 

And  majesty  of  motion,  when  their  heads 

Primeval  trees  toss  in  a  sunny  storm, 


GLADYS    AND   HER   ISLAND.  271 

And  hail  their  nuts  down  on  unweeded  fields. 
No  holidays,"  quoth  she ;  "  drop,  drop,  O,  drop, 
Thou  tired  skylark,  and  go  up  no  more  ; 
You  lime-trees,  cover  not  your  head  with  bees, 
Nor  give  out  your  good  smell.     She  will  not  look  ; 
No,  Gladys  cannot  draw  your  sweetness  in, 
For  lack  of  holidays."     So  Gladys  thought, 
"  A  most  strange  woman,  and  she  talks  of  me." 
With  that  a  girl  ran  up  :  "  Mother,"  she  said, 
"  Come  out  of  this  brown  bight,  I  pray  you  now, 
It  smells  of  fairies."     Gladys  thereon  thought, 
"  The  mother  will  not  speak  to  me,  perhaps 
The  daughter  fnay,"  and  asked  her  courteously, 
"  What  do  the  fairies  smell  of  ?  "     But  the  girl 
With  peevish  pout  replied,  "  You  know,  you  know.' 
"  Not  I,"  said  Gladys  ;  then  she  answered  her, 
"  Something  like  buttercups.     But,  mother,  come. 
And  whisper  up  a  porpoise  from  the  foam. 
Because  I  want  to  ride." 

Full  slowly,  then. 
The  mother  rose,  and  ever  kept  her  eyes 
Upon  her  little  child.     "  You  freakish  maid," 
Said  she,  "  now  mark  me,  if  I  call  you  one. 
You  shall  not  scold  nor  make  him  take  you  far." 


272  GLADYS   AND   HER   ISLAND. 

"  I  only  want  — you  know  I  only  want," 
Tbe  girl  replied  —  "  to  go  and  play  awhile 
Upon  the  sand  by  Lagos."    Then  she  turned 
And  muttered  low,  "  Mother,  is  this  the  girl 
Who  saw  the  island  ?  "     But  the  mother  frowned. 
"  When  may  she  go  to  it  ?  "  the  daughter  asked. 
And  Gladj  s,  following  them,  gave  all  her  mind 
To  Lear  the  answer.     "  When  she  wills  to  go ; 
For  yonder  comes  to  shore  the  ferry-boat." 
Then  Gladys  turned  to  look,  and  even  so 
It  was ;  a  ferry-boat,  and  far  away 
Reared  in  the  offing,  lo,  the  purple  peaks 
Of  her  loved  island. 

Then  she  raised  her  arms, 
And  ran  toward  the  boat,  crying  out,  "  O  rare, 
The  island  !  fair  befall  the  island  ;  let 
Me  reach  the  island."     And  she  sprang  on  board, 
And  after  her  stopped  in  the  freakish  maid 
And  the  fair  mother,  brooding  o'er  her  child  ; 
And  this  one  took  the  helm, -and  that  let  go 
The  sail,  and  off  they  flew,  and  furrowed  up 
A  flaky  hill  before,  and  left  behind 
A  sobbing  snake-like  tail  of  creamy  foam ; 
And  dancing  hither,  thither,  sometimes  shot 


GLADYS    AXD    HER    ISLAND.  273 

Toward  the  island  ;  then,  when  Gladys  looked, 

Were  leaving  it  to  leeward.     And  the  maid 

Wliistlcd  a  wind  to  come  and  rock  the  craft, 

And  would  be  leaning  down  her  head  to  mew 

At  cat-fish,  then  lift  out  into  her  lap 

And  dandle  baby-seals,  which,  having  kissed, 

She  flung  to  their  sleek  mothers,  till  her  own 

Rebuked  her  in  good  English,  after  cried, 

"  Luff",  luff",  we  shall  be  swamped."     "  I  will  not  luff"," 

Sobbed  the  fair  mischief;  "  you  are  cross  to  me." 

"  For  shame ! "  the  mother  shrieked ;  "  luff",  luff",  my  dear ; 

Kiss  and  be  friends,  and  thou  shalt  have  the  fish 

With  the  curly  tail  to  ride  on."     So  she  did, 

And  presently,  a  dolphin  bouncing  up. 

She  sprang  upon  his  slippery  back,  —  "  Farewell," 

She  laughed,  was  off',  and  all  the  sea  grew  calm. 

Then  Gladys  was  much  happier,  and  was  'ware 
In  the  smooth  weather  that  this  woman  talked 
Like  one  in  sleep,  and  murmured  certain  thoughts 
Which  seemed  to  be  like  eclioes  of  her  own. 
She  nodded,  "  Yes,  the  girl  is  going  now 
To  her  own  island.     Gladys  poor  ?     Not  she  ! 
Who  thinks  so  ?     Once  I  met  a  man  in  white, 


274  GLADYS    AND    HER    I^LA-ND. 

Who  said  to  me,  '  The  thing  that  might  have  been 

Is  called,  and  questioned  why  it  bath  not  been ; 

And  can  it  give  good  reason,  it  is  set 

Beside  the  actual,  and  reciioned  in 

To  fill  the  empty  gaps  of  life.'     Ah,  so 

The  possible  stands  by  us  ever  fresh, 

Fairer  than  aught  which  any  life  hath  owned, 

And  makes  divine  amends.     Now  this  was  set 

Apart  from  kin,  and  not  ordained  a  home ; 

An  equal ;  —  and  not  suffered  to  fence  in 

A  little  plot  of  earthly  good,  and  say, 

'T  is  mine ;  but  in  bereavement  of  the  part, 

O,  yet  to  taste  the  whole,  —  to  understand 

The  grandeur  of  the  story,  not  to  feel 

Satiate  with  good  possessed,  but  evermore 

A  healthful  hunger  for  the  great  idea, 

The  beauty  and  the  blessedness  of  life." 

"  Lo,  now,  the  shadow  ! "  quoth  she,  breaking  oflF, 
"  We  are  in  the  shadow."     Then  did  Gladys  turn, 
And,  O,  the  mountain  with  the  purple  peaks 
Was  close  at  hand.     It  cast  a  shadow  out, 
And  they  were  in  it :  and  she  saw  the  snow, 
And  under  that  the  rocks,  and  under  that 


GLADYS    AND    HER   ISLAND.  275 

The  pines,  and  then  the  pasturage  ;  and  saw 
Numerous  dips,  and  undiihitions  rare, 
Running  down  seaward,  all  astir  with  lithe 
Long  canes,  and  lofty  feathers ;  for  the  palms 
And  spice-trees  of  the  south,  nay,  every  growth, 
Meets  in  that  island. 

So  that  woman  ran 
The  boat  ashore,  and  Gladys  set  her  foot 
Thereon.     Then  all  at  once  much  laughter  rose  ■, 
Invisible  folk' set  up  exultant  shouts, 
"  It  all  belongs  to  Gladys  "  ;  and  she  ran 
And  hid  herself  among  the  nearest  trees 
And  panted,  shedding  tears. 

So  she  looked  round, 
And  saw  that  she  was  in  a  banyan  grove, 
Full  of  wild  peacocks,  —  pecking  on  the  grass, 
A  flickering  mass  of  eyes,  blue,  green,  and  gold, 
Or  reaching  out  their  jewelled  necks,  where  high 
They  sat  in  rows  along  the  boughs.     No  tree 
Cumbered  with  creepers  let  the  sunshine  through, 
But  it  was  caught  in  scarlet  cups,  and  poured 
From  these  on  amber  tufts  of  bloom,  and  dropped 
Lower  on  azure  stars.     The  air  was  still. 
As  if  awaiting  somewhat,  or  asleep. 


276 


GLADYS    AND    IIER   ISLAND. 


And  Gladys  was  the  only  thing  that  moved, 

Excepting  —  no,  they  were  not  birds  —  what  then  ? 

Glorified  rainbows  with  a  living  soul  ? 

While  th'ey  passed  through  a  sunbeam  they  were  seen. 

Not  otherwhere,  but  they  were  present  yet 

In  shade.     They  were  at  work,  pomegranate  fruit 

That  lay  about  removing,  —  purple  grapes, 

That  clustered  in  the  path,  clearing  aside. 

Through  a  small  spot  of  light  would  pass  and  go 

The  glorious  happy  mouth  and  two  fair  eyes 

Of  somewhat  that  made  rustlings  where  it  went ; 

But  when  a  beam  would  strike  the  ground  sheer  down. 

Behold  them !  they  had  wings,  and  they  would  pass 

One  after  other  with  the  sheeny  fans. 

Bearing  them  slowly,  that  their  hues  were  seen. 

Tender  as  russet  crimson  dropt  on  snows. 

Or  where  they  turned  flashing  with  gold  and  dashed 

With  pnr{)le  glooms.     And  they  had  feet,  but  these 

Did  barely  touch  the  ground.     And  they  took  heed 

Not  to  disturb  the  waiting  quietness  ; 

Nor  rouse  up  fawns,  that  slept  beside  their  dams  ; 

Nor  the  fair  leopard,  with  her  sleek  paws  laid 

Across  her  little  drowsy  cubs  ;  nor  swans, 

That,  floating,  slept  upon  a  glassy  pool ; 


GLADYS    AND    IIEK    ISLAND.  277 

Nor  rosy  cranes,  all  slumbering  in  the  reeds, 

With  heads  beneath  their  wings.     For  this,  you  know, 

Was  Eden.     She  was  passing  through  the  trees 

That  made  a  ring  about  it,  and  she  caught 

A  glimpse  of  glades  beyond.     All  she  had  seen 

Was  nothing  to  them ;  but  words  are  not  made 

To  tell  that  tale.     No  wind  was  let  to  blow. 

And  all  the  doves  were  bidden  to  hold  their  peace. 

Why  ?     One  was  working  in  a  valley  near, 

And  none  might  look  that  way.     It  was  understood 

That  He  had  nearly  ended  that  His  work  ; 

For  two  shapes  met,  and  one  to  other  spake, 

Accosting  hira  with,  "  Prince,  what  worketh  He  ?  " 

Who  whispered,  "  Lo  !  He  fashioneth  red  clay." 

And  all  at  once  a  little  trembling  stir 

Was  felt  in  the  earth,  and  every  creature  woke. 

And  laid  its  head  down,  listening.     It  was  known 

Then  that  the  work  was  done  ;  the  new-made  king 

Had  risen,  and  set  his  feet  upon  his  realm, 

And  it  acknowledged  him. 

But  in  her  path 
Came  some  one  that  withstood  her,  and  he  said, 
"  AATiat  doest  thou  here  ?  "     Then  she  did  turn  and  flee, 
Among  those  colored  spirits,  through  the  grove, 


278  GLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND. 

Trembling  for  haste  ;  it  was  not  well  witli  her 
Till  she  came  forth  of  those  thick  banyan  trees, 
And  set  her  feet  upon  the  common  grass, 
And  felt  the  common  wind. 

Yet  once  beyond, 
She  could  not  choose  but  cast  a  backward  glance. 
The  lovely  matted  growth  stood  like  a  wall, 
And  means  of  entering  were  not  evident,  — 
The  gap  had  closed.     But  Gladys  laughed  for  joy  ; 
She  said,  "  Remoteness  and  a  multitude 
Of  years  are  counted  nothing  here.     Behold, 
To-day  I  have  been  in  Eden.     O,  it  blooms 
In  my  own  island." 

And  she  wandered  on, 
Thinking,  until  she  reached  a  place  of  palms, 
And  all  the  earth  was  sandy  where  she  walked,  — 
Sandy  and  dry,  —  strewed  with  papyrus-leaves, 
Old  idols,  rings  and  pottery,  painted  lids 
Of  mummies  (for  perhaps  it  was  the  way 
That  leads  to  dead  old  Egyi)t),  and  withal 
Excellent  sunshine  cut  out  sharp  and  clear 
The  hot  prone  pillars,  and  the  carven  plintlis,  — 
Stone  lotos  (rujjs,  with  petals  dipi)ed  in  sand, 
And  wicked  gods,  and  sphinxes  bland,  who  sat 


GLADYS    AXD    HER    ISLAND.  279 

And  stalled  upon  the  ruin.     O,  how  still ! 
Hot,  blank,  illuminated  with  the  clear 
Stare  of  an  unveiled  sky.     The  dry  stifF  leaves 
Of"  palm-trees  never  rustled,  and  the  soul 
Of  that  dead  ancientry  was  itself  dead. 
She  was  above  her  ankles  in  the  sand, 
When  she  beheld  a  reeky  road,  and,  lo  ! 
It  bare  in  it  the  ruts  of  chariot  wheels, 
Which  erst  had  carried  to  their  pagan  prayers 
The  brown  old  Pharaohs ;  for  the  ruts  led  on 
To  a  great  cliff,  that  either  was  a  cliff 
Or  some  dread  shrine  in  ruins,  —  partly  reared 
In  front  of  that  same  cUff,  and  partly  hewn 
Or  excavate  within  its  heart.     Great  heaps 
Of  sand  and  stones  on  either  side  there  lay ; 
And,  as  the  girl  drew  on,  rose  out  from  each, 
As  from  a  ghostly  kennel,  gods  unblest, 
Dog-headed,  and  behind  them  winged  things 
Like  angels ;  and  this  carven  multitude 
Hedged  in,  to  right  and  left,  the  rocky  road. 
At  last,  the  cliff,  —  and  in  the  cliff  a  door 
Yawning  :  and  she  looked  in,  as  down  the  throat 
Of  some  stupendous  giant,  and  beheld 
No  floor,  but  wide,  worn  flights  of  steps,  that  led 


280 


GLADYS   AND   HER  ISLAND. 


Into  a  dimness.     When  the  eyes  could  bear 
That  change  to  gloom,  she  saw,  flight  after  flight, 
Flight  after  flight,  the  worn,  long  stair  go  down, 
Smooth  with  the  feet  of  nations  dead  and  gone. 
So  she  did  enter ;  also  she  went  down 
Till  it  was  dark,  and  jet  again  went  down. 
Till,  gazing  upward  at  that  yawning  door. 
It  seemed  no  larger,  in  its  height  remote, 
Than  a  pin's  head.     But  while,  irresolute, 
She  doubted  of  the  end,  yet  farther  down 
A  slender  ray  of  lamplight  fell  away 
Along  the  stair,  as  from  a  door  ajar: 
To  this  again  she  felt  her  way,  and  stepped 
Adown  the  hollow  stair,  and  reached  the  light ; 
But  fear  fell  on  her,  fear ;  and  she  forbore 
Entrance,  and  listened.     Ay  !  't  was  even  so,  — 
A  sigh  ;  the  breathing  as  of  one  who  slept 
And  was  disturbed.     So  she  drew  back  awhile, 
And  trembled ;  then  her  doubting  hand  she  laid 
Against  the  door,  and  pushed  it;  but  the  light 
Waned,  faded,  sank  ;  and  as  she  came  within  — 
Hark,  hark  !     A  spirit  was  it,  and  asleep  ? 
A  spirit  doth  not  breathe  like  clay.     There  hung 
A  cresset  from  the  roof,  and  thence  appeared 


GLADYS    AND    HElt   ISLAND.  281 

A  flickering  speck  of  light,  and  disappeared ; 
Then  dropped  along  the  floor  its  elfish  flakes, 
That  fell  on  some  one  resting,  in  the  gloom,  — 
Somewhat,  a  spectral  shadow,  tlien  a  shape 
That  loomed.     It  was  a  heifer,  ay,  and  white, 
Breathing  and  languid  through  prolonged  repose. 

Was  it  a  heifer  ?  all  the  marble  floor 
Was  milk-white  also,  and  the  cresset  paled, 
And  straight  their  whiteness  grew  confused  and  mixed. 

But  when  the  cresset,  taking  heart,  bloomed  out  — 
The  whiteness  —  and  asleep  again  !  but  now 
It  was  a  woman,  robed,  and  with  a  face 
Lovely  and  dim.     And  Gladys  while  she  gazed 
JNIiirmured,  "  O  terrible  !     I  am  afraid 
To  breatiie  among  these  intermittent  lives, 
That  fluctuate  in  mystic  solitude. 
And  change  and  fade.     Lo  !  where  the  goddess  sits 
Dreaming  on  her  dim  throne  ;  a  crescent  moon 
She  wears  upon  her  foreliead.     Ah  !  her  frown 
Is  mournful,  and  her  slumber  is  not  sweet. 
What  dost  thou  hold,  Isis,  to  thy  cold  breast  ? 
A  baby  god  with  finger  on  his  lips, 


282  GLADYS   AXD    HER    ISLAND. 

Asleep,  and  dreaming  of  departed  sway  ? 
Thy  son.     Hush,  hush  ;  he  knoweth  all  the  lore 
And  sorcery  of  old  Egypt ;  but  his  mouth 
He  shuts  ;  the  secret  shall  be  lost  with  him, 
He  will  not  tell." 

The  woman  coming  down ! 
"  Child,  what  art  doing  here  ?  "  the  woman  said ; 
"  What  wilt  thou  of  Dame  Isis  and  her  bairn  ?  " 
(Ay,  ay,  tve  see  thee  ireathing  in  thy  shroud, — 
Thy  pretty  shroud,  all  frilled  and  furhelowed.') 
The  air  is  dim  with  dust  of  spiced  bones. 
I  mark  a  crypt  down  there.     Tier  upon  tier 
Of  painted  coffers  fills  it.     What  if  we, 
Passing,  should  slip,  and  crash  into  their  midst,  — 
Break  the  frail  ancientry,  and  smothered  lie. 
Tumbled  among  the  ribs  of  queens  and  kings, 
And  all  the  gear  they  took  to  bed  with  them  ! 
Horrible  !  let  us  hence. 

And  Gladys  said, 
"  O,  they  are  rough  to  mount,  those'stairs" ;  but  she 
Took  her  and  laughed,  and  up  the  mighty  flight 
Shot  like  a  meteor  with  her.     "  There,"  said  she ; 
"  The  light  is  sweet  when  one  has  smelled  of  graves, 
Down  in  unholy  heathen  gloom ;  farewell." 


I 


(xLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND.  283 

She  pointed  to  a  gateway,  strong  and  high, 

Reared  of  hewn  stones  ;  but,  look  !  in  lieu  of  gate, 

There  was  a  glittering  cobweb  drawn  across, 

And  on  the  lintel  there  were  writ  these  words  : 

"  Ho,  every  one  that  cometli,  I  divide 

What  hath  been  from  what  might  be,  and  the  line 

Hangeth  before  thee  as  a  spider's  web  ; 

Yet,  wouldst  thou  enter,  thou  must  break  the  line , 

Or  else  forbear  the  hill." 

The  maiden  said, 
"  So,  cobweb,  I  will  break  thee."     And  she  passed 
Among  some  oak-trees  on  the  farther  side, 
And  waded  through  the  bracken  round  their  bolls, 
Until  she  saw  the  open,  and  drew  on 
Toward  the  edge  o'  the  wood,  where  it  was  mixed 
With  pines  and  heathery  places  wild  and  fresh. 
Here  she  put  up  a  creature,  that  ran  on 
Before  her,  crying,  "  Tint,  tint,  tint,"  and  turned, 
Sat  up,  and  stared  at  her  with  elfish  eyes. 
Jabbering  of  gramarye,  one  Michael  Scott, 
The  wizard  that  wonneil  somewhere  underground, 
With  other  talk  enough  to  make  one  fear 
To  walk  in  lonely  places.     After  passed 
A  man-at-arms,  William  of  Deloraine ; 


284  GLADYS    AND    HER   ISLAND. 

He  shook  his  head,  "  An'  if  I  list  to  tell," 

Quoth  he,  "  I  know,  but  how  it  matters  not " ; 

Then  crossed  himself,  and  muttered  of  a  clap 

Of  thunder,  and  a  shape  in  Amice  gray, 

But  still  it  mouthed  at  him,  and  whimpered,  "  Tint, 

Tint,  tint."   "There  shall  be  wild  work  some  day  soon," 

Quoth  he,  "  thou  limb  of  darkness :  he  will  come, 

Thy  master,  push  a  hand  up,  catch  thee,  imp, 

And  so  good  Christians  shall  have  peace,  perdie." 

Then  Gladys  was  so  frightened,  that  she  ran, 

And  got  away,  towards  a  grassy  down. 

Where  sheep  and  lambs  were  feeding,  with  a  boy 

To  tend  them.     'T  was  the  boy  who  wears  that  herb 

Called  heart's-ease  in  his  bosom,  and  he  sang 

So  sweetly  to  his  flock,  that  she  stole  on 

Nearer  to  listen.     "  O  Content,  Content, 

Give  me,"  sang  he,  "  thy  tender  company. 

I  feed  my  flock  among  the  myrtles ;  all 

My  lambs  are  twins,  and  they  have  laid  them  down 

Along  the  slopes  of  Beulah.     Come,  fair  love. 

From  the  other  side  the  river,  where  their  harps 

Thou  hast  been  helping  tliom  (o  tune.     O  come, 

And  pitch  thy  tent  by  mine  ;  let  me  behold 


I 


GLADYS    A>D    HER   ISLAND.  285 

Thy  mouth,  —  that  even  in  slumber  talks  of  peace, — 
Thy  well-set  locks,  and  dove-like  countenance." 

And  Gladys  hearkened,  couched  upon  the  grass, 

Till  she  had  rested  ;  then  did  ask  the  boy, 

For  it  was  afternoon,  and  she  was  fain 

To  reach  the  shore,  "  Which  is  the  path,  I  pray, 

That  leads  one  to  the  water  ?  "     But  he  said, 

"  Dear  lass,  I  only  know  the  narrow  way, 

The  path  that  leads  one  to  the  golden  gate 

Across  the  river."     So  she  wandered  on  ; 

And  presently  her  feet  grew  cool,  the  grass 

Standing  so  high,  and  thyme  being  thick  and  soft. 

The  air  was  full  of  voices,  and  the  scent 

Of  mountain  blossom  loaded  all  its  wafts ; 

For  she  was  on  the  slopes  of  a  goodly  mount, 

And  reared  in  such  a  sort  that  it  looked  down 

Into  the  deepest  valleys,  darkest  glades, 

And  richest  plains  o*  the  island.     It  was  set' 

Midway  between  the  snows  majestical 

And  a  wide  level,  such  as  men  would  choose 

For  growing  wheat ;  and  some  one  said  to  her, 

"  It  is  the  hill  Parnassus."     So  she  walked 

Yet  on  its  lower  slope,  and  she  could  hear 


286  GLADYS    AND    HEU    ISLAND. 


f 


The  calling  of  an  unseen  multitude 

To  some  upon  the  mountain,  "  Give  us  more  " ; 

And  others  said,  "  We  are  tired  of  this  old  world : 

Make  it  look  new  again."     Then  there  were  some 

Who  answered  lovingly  —  (the  dead  yet  speak 

From  that  high  mountain,  as  the  living  do)  ; 

But  others  sang  desponding,  "  We  have  kept 

The  vision  for  a  chosen  few :  we  love 

Fit  audience  better  than  a  rough  huzza  aji 

From  the  unreasoning  crowd."  " 

Then  words  came  up : 
"  There  was  a  time,  you  poets,  was  a  time 
When  all  the  poetry  was  ours,  and  made 
By  some  who  climbed  the  mountain  from  our  midst, 
We  loved  it  then,  we  sang  it  in  our  streets.  ♦- 

O,  it  grows  obsolete  !     Be  you  as  they : 
Our  heroes  die  and  drop  away  from  us ; 
Oblivion  folds  them  'neath  her  dusky  wing, 
Fair  copied  wasted  to  the  hungering  world. 
Save  them.     We  fall  so  low  for  lack  of  them, 
That  many  of  us  think  scorn  of  honest  trade, 
And  take  no  pride  in  our  own  shops ;  who  care 
Only  to  (juit  a  calling,  will  not  make 
The  calling  what  it  might  be :  who  despise 


GLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND.  287 

Their  work,  Fate  laughs  at,  and  doth  let  the  work 
Dull,  and  degrade  them." 

Then  did  Gladys  smile: 
"  Heroes  !  "  quoth  she  ;  "  yet,  now  I  think  on  it, 
There  was  the  jolly  goldsmith,  brave  Sir  Hugh, 
Certes,  a  hero  ready-made.     Methinks 
I  see  him  burnishing  of  golden  gear. 
Tankard  and  charger,  and  a-muttering  low, 
'  London  is  thirsty  '  —  (then  he  weighs  a  chain)  : 
''Tis  an  ill  thing,  my  masters.     I  would  give 
The  worth  of  this,  and  many  such  as  this, 
To  bring  it  water.' 

Ay,  and  after  him 
There  came  up  Guy  of  London,  lettered  son 
O'  the  honest  lighterman.     I  '11  think  on  him, 
Leaning  upon  the  bridge  on  summer  eves. 
After  his  shop  was  closed :  a  still,  grave  man, 
With  melancholy  eyes.     '  While  these  are  hale,' 
He  saith,  when  he  looks  down  and  marks  the  crowd 
Cheerily  working  ;  where  the  river  marge 
Is  blocked  with  ships  and  boats ;  and  all  the  wharves 
Swarm,  and  the  cranes  swing  in  with  merchandise,  — 
'  While  tlu'se  are  hale,  'tis  well,  'tis  very  well. 
But,  O  good  Lord,'  saith  he,  '  when  these  are  sick,  — 


288  GLADYS    AND   HER   ISLAND. 

I  fear  me,  Lord,  this  excellent  workmanship 
Of  Thine  Is  counted  for  a  cunibrance  then. 
Ay,  ay,  my  hearties  !  many  a  man  of  you, 
Struck  down,  or  maimed,  or  fevered,  shrinks  away, 
And,  mastered  in  that  fight  for  lack  of  aid, 
Creeps  shivering  to  a  corner,  and  there  dies.' 
^Vell  we  have  heard  the  rest. 

Ah,  next  I  think 
Upon  the  merchant  captain,  stout  of  heart 
To  dare  and  to  endure.     '  Robert,'  saith  he, 
(The  navigator  Knox  to  his  manful  son,) 
*  I  sit  a  captive  from  the  ship  detained  ; 
This  heathenry  doth  let  thee  visit  her. 
Remember,  son,  if  thou,  alas  !  shouldst  fail 
To  ransom  thy  poor  father,  they  are  free 
As  yet,  the  mariners  ;  have  wives  at  home. 
As  I  have  ;  ay,  and  liberty  is  sweet 
To  all  men.     For  the  ship,  she  is  not  ours. 
Therefore,  'beseech  thee,  son,  lay  on  the  mate 
This  my  command,  to  leave  me,  and  set  sail. 
As  for  thyf:elf —  '     '  Good  father,'  saith  the  son  ; 
'  I  will  not,  fither,  ask  your  blessing  now, 
Because,  for  fair,  or  else  for  evil,  fate, 
We  two  shall  meet  again.'     And  so  they  did. 


GLADYS    AXD    HER   ISLAND.  289 

The  dusky  men,  peeling  off  cinnamon, 

And  beating  nutmeg  clusters  from  tlie  tree, 

Ransom  and  bribe  contemned.    The  good  ship  sailed,  — 

The  son  returned  to  share  his  fathei-'s  cell. 

"  O,  there  are  many  such.     Would  I  had  wit 

Their  worth  to  sing  !  "     With  that,  she  turned  her  feet. 

"  I  am  tired  now,"  said  Gladys,  "  of  their  talk 

Around  this  hill  Parnassus."     And,  behold, 

A  piteous  sight,  —  an  old,  blind,  graybeard  king 

Led  by  a  ibol  with  bells.     Now  this  was  loved 

Of  the  crowd  below  the  hill ;  and  when  he  called 

For  his  lost  kingdom,  and  bewailed  his  age. 

And  plained  on  his  unkind  daughters,  they  were  known 

To  say,  that  if  tlie  best  of  gold  and  gear 

Could   have  bought  him  back  his  kingdom,  and  made 

kind 
The  hard  hearts  which  had  broken  his  erewhile, 
They  would  have  gladly  paid  it  fi'om  their  store. 
Many  times  over.     AVhat  is  done  is  done, 
No  help.     The  ruined  majesty  passed  on. 
And,  look  you  !  one  who  met  her  as  she  walked 
Showed  her  a  mountain  nymph  lovely  as  light. 
Her  name  QEnone  ;  and  she  mourned  and  mourned. 


290  GLADYS    AND    HER   ISLAND. 

"  O  Mother  Ida,"  and  she  could  not  cease 
No,  nor  be  comforted. 

And  after  this, 
Soon  there  came  by,  arrayed  in  Norman  cap 
And  kirtle,  an  Arcadian  villager. 
Who  said,  "  I  pray  you,  have  you  chanced  to  meet 
One  Gabriel  ?  "  and  she  sighed  ;  but  Gladys  took 
And  kissed  her  band  :  she  could  not  answer  her, 
Because  she  guessed  the  end. 

"With  that  it  drew 
To  evening  ;  aM  as  Gladys  wandered  on 
In  the  calm  weather,  she  beheld  the  wave, 
And  she  ran  down  to  set  her  feet  again 
On  the  sea-margin,  which  was  covered  thick 
With  white  shell-skeletons.     The  sky  was  red 
As  wine.     The  water  played  among  bare  ribs 
Of  many  wrecks,  that  lay  half-buried  there 
In  the  sand.     She  saw  a  cave,  and  moved  thereto 
To  ask  her  way,  and  one  so  innocent 
Came  out  to  meet  her,  that,  with  marvelling  mute, 
She  gazed  and  gazed  into  her  sea-blue  eyes, 
For  in  them  beamed  the  untaught  ecstasy 
Of  childhood,  that  lives  on  though  youth  be  come, 
And  love  juat  born. 


GLADYS   AND    IIEli    ISLAND.  291 

She  could  not  choose  but  name  her  shipwrecked  prince, 

All  blushing.     She  told  Gladys  many  things 

That  are  not  in  the  story,  —  things,  in  sooth, 

That  Prospero  her  father  knew.     But  now 

'T  was  evening,  and  the  sun  dropped  ;  purple  stripes 

In  the  sea  were  copied  from  some  clouds  that  lay 

Out  in  the  west.     And  lo  !  the  boat,  and  more. 

The  freakish  thing  to  take  fair  Gladys  home 

She  mowed  at  her,  but  Gladys  took  the  helm  : 

"  Peace,  Peace  !  "  she  said ;    "  be  good  :    you  shall  not 

steer. 
For  I  am  your  liege  lady."     Then  she  sang 
The  sweetest  songs  she  knew  all  the  way  Lome. 

So  Gladys  set  her  feet  upon  the  sand ; 
While  in  the  sunset  glory  died  away 
The  peaks  of  that  blest  island. 

"  Fare  you  well. 
My  country,  my  own  kingdom,"  then  she  said, 
"  Till  I  go  visit  you  again,  farewell." 

She  looked  toward  their  house  with  whom  she  dwelt,  — 
The  carriages  were  coming.     Hastening  up, 
She  was  in  time  to  meet  them  at  the  door, 


292  GLADYS    AXD    IIEH    ISLAND. 

And  lead  the  sleepy  little  ones  within  ; 

And  some  were  cross  and  shivered,  and  her  dames 

Were  weary  and  right  hard  to  please ;  but  she 

Felt  like  a  beggar  suddenly  endowed 

With  a  warm  cloak  to  'fend  her  from  the  cold. 

"  For,  come  what  will,"  she  said,  "  I  had  to-day 

There  is  an  island." 

The  Moral 

"VVliat  is  the  moral  ?     Let  us  think  awhile, 
Taking  the  editorial  We  to  help. 
It  sounds  respectable. 

The  moral ;  yes, 
We  always  read,  when  any  flxble  ends, 
"  Hence  we  may  learn."     A  moral  must  be  found. 
What  do  you  think  of  this  :  "  Hence  we  may  learn 
That  dolphins  swim  about  the  coast  of  Wales, 
And  Admiralty  maps  should  now  be  drawn 
By  teacher-girls,  because  their  sight  is  keen, 
And  they  can  spy  out  islands."     Will  that  do  ? 
No,  that  is  far  too  j)lain  —  too  evident. 

Perhaps  a  general  moralizing  vein  — 

(We  know  we  have  a  happy  knack  that  way. 


GLADYS    AND    HER    ISLAND.  293 

We  have  observed,  moreover,  that  young  men 
Are  fond  of  good  advice,  and  so  are  girls ; 
Especially  of  that  meandering  kind 
Which,  winding  on  so  sweetly,  treats  of  all 
They  ought  to  be  and  do  and  think  and  wear, 
As  one  may  say,  from  creeds  to  comforters. 
Indeed,  we  much  prefer  that  sort  ourselves, 
So  soothing).     Good,  a  moralizing  vein  : 
That  is  the  thing  ;  but  how  to  manage  it  ? 
"  Hence  we  may  learn"  if  we  be  so  inclined, 
That  life  goes  best  with  those  who  take  it  best ; 
That  wit  can  spin  fcom  work  a  golden  robe 
To  queen  it  in ;  that  who  can  paint  at  will 
A  private  picture-gallery,  should  not  cry 
For  shillings  that  will  let  him  in  to  look 
At  some  by  others  painted.     Furthermore, 
Hence  we  may  learn,  you  poets  —  (and  we  count 
For  poets  all  who  ever  fell  that  such 
They  tcere,  and  all  who  secretly  have  known 
That  such  they  could  be  ;  ay,  moreover,  all 
^^^lo  wind  the  robes  of  ideality 
About  the  bareness  of  their  lives,  and  hang 
Comforting  curtains,  knit  of  fancy's  yarn, 
Nightly  bettoixt  them  and  the  frosty  toorld)  — 


294  GLADYS   AND    HER   ISLAND. 

Hence  we  may  learn,  you  poets,  that  of  all 
We  should  be  most  content.     The  earth  is  given 
To  us :  we  reign  by  virtue  of  a  sense 
Which  lets  us  hear  the  rhythm  of  that  old  verse, 
The  ring  of  that  old  tune  whereto  she  spins. 
Humanity  is  given  to  us  :  we  reign 
By  virtue  of  a  sense  which  lets  us  in 
To  know  its  troubles  ere  they  have  been  told, 
And  take  them  home  and  lull  them  into  rest 
With  mournfullest  music.     Time  is  given  to  us,  — 
Time  past,  time  future.     Who,  good  sooth,  beside 
Have  seen  it  well,  have  walked  this  eoipty  world 
When  she  went  steaming,  and  from  pulpy  hills 
Have  marked  the  spurting  of  their  flamy  crowns  ? 

Have  not  we  seen  the  tabernacle  pitched, 
And  peered  between  the  linen  curtains,  blue, 
Purple,  and  scarlet,  at  the  dimness  there. 
And,  frighted,  have  not  dared  to  look  again  ? 
But,  quaint  anticjuity  !  beheld,  we  thought, 
A  chest  that  might  have  held  the  manna  pot, 
And  Aaron's  rod  that  budded.     Ay,  we  leaned 
Over  the  edge  of  Britain,  while  the  fleet 
Of  Cajsar  loomed  and  neared  ;  then,  afterwards, 


GLADYS    AXD    HER    ISLAND.  295 

We  saw  fair  Venice  looking  at  herself 

In  the  glass  below  her,  while  her  Doge  went  forth 

In  all  his  bravery  to  the  wedding. 

This, 
However,  counts  for  nothing  to  the  grace 
We  wot  of  in  time  future  :  —  therefore  add, 
And  afterwards  have  done  :  '■'■Hence  ice  may  learn" 
That  though  it  be  a  grand  and  comely  thing 
To  be  unhappy  —  (and  we  think  it  is, 
Because  so  many  grand  and  clever  folk 
Have  found  out  reasons  for  unhappiness, 
And  talked  about  uncomfortable  things,  — 
Low  motives,  bores,  and  shams,  and  hoUowness, 
The  hoUowness  o'  the  world,  till  we  at  last 
Have  scarcely  dared  to  jump  or  stamp,  for  fear, 
Being  so  hollow,  it  should  break  some  day, 
And  let  us  in)  —  yet,  since  we  are  not  grand, 
O,  not  at  all,  and  as  for  cleverness. 
That  may  be  or  may  not  be  —  it  is  well 
For  us  to  be  as  happy  as  we  can  ! 

Agreed  ;  and  with  a  word  to  the  nobler  sex, 
As  thus ;  we  pray  you  carry  not  your  guns 
On  the  full-cock  ;  we  jiray  you  set  your  pride 


296  GLADYS   ANi)   HER   ISLAND. 

In  its  projier  place,  and  never  be  ashamed 
Of  any  honest  calling,  —  let  us  add, 
And  end  ;  for  all  the  rest,  hold  up  your  heads 
And  mind  your  English. 


SONGS   WITH   PRELUDES. 


WEDLOCK. 

THE  sun  was  streaming  in  :  I  woke,  and  said, 
"  Wiiere  is  my  wife,  that  has  been  made  my  wife 
Only  this  year?  "     The  casement  stood  ajar  : 
I  did  but  Uft  my  head  :  The  pear-tree  dropped. 
The  great  white  pear-tree  dropped  with  dew  from  leaves 
And  blossom,  under  heavens  of  happy  blue. 

jVIy  wife  had  wakened  first,  and  had  gone  down 

Into  the  orchard.     All  the  air  was  calm  ; 

Audible  humming  filled  it.     At  the  roots 

Of  peony  bushes  lay  in  rose-red  heaps, 

Or  snowy,  fallen  bloom.     The  crag-like  hills 

Were  tossing  down  their  silver  messengers. 

And  two  brown  foreigners,  called  cuckoo-birds, 

G.ive  them  good  answer  :  all  things  else  were  mute  ; 

An  idle  world  Uiy  listening  to  their  talk. 

They  had  it  to  themselves. 


298  SONGS    WITH    PRELUDES. 

What  alls  my  wife  ? 
I  know  not  if  aught  ails  her ;  though  her  step  » 
Tell  of  a  conscious  quiet,  lest  I  wake. 
She  moves  atween  the  almond-boughs,  and  bends 
One  thick  with  bloom  to  look  on  it.     "  O  love ! 
A  little  while  thou  hast  withdrawn  thyself, 
At  unaware  to  think  thy  thoughts  alone  : 
How  sweet,  and  yet  pathetic  to  my  heart 
The  reason.     Ah !  thou  art  no  more  thine  own. 
Mine,  mine,  O  love  !     Tears  gather  'neath  my  lids, — 
Sorrowful  tears  for  thy  lost  liberty, 
Because  it  was  so  sweet.     Thy  liberty. 
That  yet,  O  love,  thou  wouldst  not  have  again. 
No;  all  is  right.     But  who  can  give,  or  bless. 
Or  take  a  blessing,  but  there  comes  withal 
Some  pain  ?  " 

She  walks  beside  the  lily  bed. 
And  holds  apart  her  gown ;  she  would  not  hurt 
The  leaf-enfolded  buds,  that  have  n'lt  looked 
Yet  on  the  daylight.     O,  thy  locks  are  brown,  — 
Fairest  of  colors  !  —  and  a  darker  brown 
The  beautiful,  dear,  veiled,  modest  eyes. 
A  bloom  as  of  blush-roses  covers  her 
Forehead,  and  throat,  and  cheek.     Health  breathes  with 
her. 


SOXGS    WITH   I'KKLUDES.  299 

And  graceful  vigor.     Fair  and  wondrous  soul ! 
To  tWnk  that  thou  art  mine  ! 

My  wife  came  in, 
And  moved  into  the  chamber.     As  for  me, 
I  heard,  but  lay  as  one  that  nothing  hears, 
And  feigned  to  be  asleep. 

I. 

The  racing  river  leaped  and  sang 
Full  blithely  in  the  perfect  weather, 

All  round  the  mountain  echoes  rang, 
For  blue  and  green  were  glad  together. 


This  rained  out  light  from  every  part, 
And  that  with  songs  of  joy  was  thrilling ; 

But,  in  the  hollow  of  my  heart, 

There  ached  a  place  that  wanted  filling. 

III. 

Before  the  road  and  river  meet. 

And  stepping-stones  are  wet  and  glisten, 
I  heard  a  sound  of  laughter  sweet, 

And  paused  to  like  it,  and  to  listen. 


300  SONGS   WITH   PKKLUDES. 

IV. 

I  heard  the  chanting  waters  flow, 

The  cushat's  note,  the  bee's  low  humming,  — 
Then  turned  the  hedge,  and  did  not  know  — 

How  could  I  ?  —  that  ray  time  was  coming. 

V. 

A  girl  upon  the  nighest  stone, 

Half  doubtful  of  the  deed,  was  standing, 
So  far  the  shallow  flood  had  flown 

Beyond  the  'customed  leap  of  landing. 

VI. 

She  knew  not  any  need  of  me, 
Yet  me  she  waited  all  unweeting ; 

We  thought  not  I  had  crossed  the  sea, 
And  half  the  sphere  to  give  her  meeting. 

VII. 

I  waded  out,  her  eyes  I  met, 

I  wished  the  moments  had  been  hours  ; 
I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  set 

Pier  dainty  ieet  among  the  flowers. 


SONGS    WITH   VKELUDES.  301 

VIII. 

Her  fellow-maids  in  copse  and  lane, 

Ah  !  still,  methinks,  I  hear  them  calling ; 

The  wind's  soft  whisper  in  the  plain, 
The  cushat's  coo,  the  water's  falling. 

IX. 

But  now  it  is  a  year  ago, 

But  now  possession  crowns  endeavor ; 
I  took  her  in  my  heart,  to  grow 

And  fill  the  hollow  place  forever. 


REGRET. 


O  THAT  word  Regiiet  ! 

There  have  been   nights    and  morns  when  we  have 

sighed, 
"  Let  us  alone.  Regret !     We  are  content 
To  throw  thee  all  our  past,  so  thou  wilt  sleep 
For  aye."     But  it  is  patient,  and  it  wakes ; 
It  hath  not  learned  to  cry  itself  to  sleep, 
But  plaineth  on  the  bed  that  it  is  hard. 


302  SOXGS   WITH   PRELUDES. 

We  did  amiss  when  we  did  wish  it  gone 
And  over :  sorrows  humanize  our  race ; 
Tears  are  the  showers  that  fertilize  this  world ; 
And  memory  of  things  precious  keepeth  warm 
The  heart  that  once  did  hold  them. 

They  are  poor 
That  have  lost  nothing ;  they  are  poorer  far 
Who,  losing,  have  forgotten  ;  they  most  poor 
Of  all,  who  lose  and  wish  they  might  forget. 
For  life  is  one,  and  in  its  Avarp  and  woof 
There  runs  a  thread  of  gold  that  glitters  fair, 
And  sometimes  in  the  pattern  shows  most  sweet 
Where  there  are  sombre  colors.     It  is  true 
That  we  have  wept.     But  O  !  this  thread  of  gold. 
We  would  not  have  it  tarnish ;  let  us  turn 
Oft  and  look  back  upon  the  wondrous  web, 
And  when  it  shineth  sometimes  we  shall  know 
That  memory  is  possession. 

I. 

When  I  remember  something  which  I  had. 
But  which  is  gone,  and  I  must  do  without, 

I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  can  be  glad, 
•  Even  in  cowslip  time  when  hedges  sprout; 


i 


i^ 


SONGS    WITH    PRELUDES.  303 

It  makes  me  sigh  to  think  on  it,  —  but  yet 

My  days  will  not  be  better  days,  should  I  forget. 

II. 
When  I  remember  something  promised  me. 

But  which  I  never  had,  nor  can  have  now, 
Because  the  promiser  we  no  more  see 

In  countries  that  accord  with  mortal  vow ; 
When  I  remember  this,  I  mourn,  —  but  yet 
My  happier  days  are  not  the  days  when  I  forget. 


LAMENTATION. 

\ 

I  READ  upon  that  book, 

Which  down  the  golden  gulf  doth  let  us  look 

On  the  sweet  days  of  pastoral  majesty ; 
I  read  upon  that  book 
How,  when  the  Shejiherd  Prince  did  flee 
(Red  Esau's  twin),  he  desolate  took 

The  stone  for  a  pillow  :  then  he  fell  on  sleep. 

And  lo  !  there  was  a  ladder.     Lo  !  there  hung 


304  SONGS    WITH   PRELUDES. 

A  ladder  from  the  star-place,  and  it  clung 

To  the  earth :  it  tied  her  so  to  heaven;  and  O  1 

There  fluttered  wings ; 
Then  were  ascending  and  descending  things 
That  stepped  to  him  where  he  lay  low ; 
Then  up  the  ladder  would  a-drifting  go 
(This  feathered  brood  of  heaven),  and  show 
Small  as  white  flakes  in  winter  that  are  blown 
Together,  underneath  the  great  white  throne. 

When  I  had  shut  the  book,  I  said  : 
"  Now,  as  for  me,  my  dreams  upon  my  bed 

Are  not  like  Jacob's  dream ; 
Yet  I  have  got  it  in  my  life ;  yes,  I, 
And  many  more :  it  doth  not  us  beseem, 

Therefore,  to  sigh. 
Is  there  not  hung  a  ladder  in  our  sky  ? 
Yea;  and,  moreover,  all  the  way  up  on  high 
Is  thickly  peopled  with  the  prayers  of  men. 

We  have  no  dream  !     What  then  ? 
Like  winged  wayfarers  the  height  they  scale, 
(By  Ilim  that  ofTcrs  them  they  shall  prevail)  — 

The  prayers  of  men. 
But  where  is  found  a  jiraycr  for  me; 


SOXGS    WITH    PRELUDES.  305 

IIow  should  I  pray  ? 
My  heart  is  sick,  and  full  of  strife. 
I  heard  one  whisper  with  departing  breath, 
'  Suffer  us  not,  for  any  pains  of  death, 

To  fall  from  Thee.' 
But  O,  the  pains  of  life  !  the  pains  of  life  ! 

There  is  no  comfort  now,  and  naught  to  win. 
But  yet  —  I  will  begin." 

I. 

"  Preserve  to  me  my  wealth,"  I  do  not  say, 

For  that  is  wasted  away ; 
And  much  of  it  was  cankered  ere  it  went. 
"  Preserve  to  me  my  health,"  I  cannot  say, 

For  that,  upon  a  day. 
Went  after  other  delights  to  banishment. 

II. 

AVhat  can  I  pray  ?  "  Give  me  forgetfulness  "  ? 

No,  I  would  still  possess 
Past  away  smiles,  though  present  fronts  be  stern. 
"  Give  me  again  my  kindred  "  ?     Nay ;  not  so. 

Not  idle  prayers.     We  know 
They  that  have  crossed  the  river  cannot  return. 


306 


SONGS   WITH   PRELUDES. 


I  do  not  pray,  "  Comfort  me  !  comfort  me  ! " 

For  how  should  comfort  be  ? 
O  —  O  that  cooing  mouth,  —  that  little  white  head ! 
No ;  but  1  pray,  "  If  it  be  not  too  late, 

Open  to  me  the  gate. 
That  I  may  find  my  babe  when  I  am  dead. 


Il 
I 
I 


"  Show  me  the  path.     I  had  forgotten  Thee 

When  I  was  happy  and  free, 
Walking  down  here  in  the  gladsome  light  o'  the  sun ; 
But  now  I  come  and  mourn  ;  O  set  my  teet 

In  the  road  to  Thy  blest  seat, 
And  for  the  rest,  O  God,  Thy  will  be  done." 


SONGS    WITH   PRELUDES.  307 


DOMINION 


When  found  the  rose  delight  in  her  fair  hue  ? 
Color  is  nothing  to  this  world  ;  't  is  I 
That  see  it.     Farther,  I  discover  soul, 
That  trees  are  nothing  to  their  fellow-trees ; 
It  is  but  I  that  love  their  stateliness, 
And  I  that,  comforting  my  heart,  do  sit 
At  noon  beneath  their  shadow.     I  will  step 
On  the  ledges  of  this  world,  for  it  is  mine; 
But  the  other  world  ye  wot  of  shall  go  too ; 
I  will  carry  it  in  my  bosom.     O  my  world, 
That  was  not  built  with  clay  ! 

Consider  it 
(This  outer  world  we  tread  on)  as  a  harp,  — 
A  gracious  instrument  on  w^hose  fair  strings 
We  learn  those  airs  we  shall  be  set  to  play 
When  mortal  hours  are  ended.     Let  the  wings, 
Man,  of  thy  spirit  move  on  it  as  wind. 
And  draw  forth  melody.     Why  shouldst  thou  yet 
Lie  grovelling  ?     More  is  won  than  e'er  was  lost : 
In^erit.     Let  thy  day  fee  to  thy  night 


308  SONGS    WITH   PRELUDES. 

A  teller  of  good  tidings.     Let  thy  praise 
Go  up  as  birds  go  up  that,  when  they  wake, 
Shake  off  the  dew  and  soar. 

So  take  Joy  home, 
And  make  a  place  in  thy  great  heart  for  her, 
And  give  her  time  to  grow,  and  cherish  her ; 
Then  will  she  come,  and  oft  will  sing  to  thee, 
AVhen  thou  art  working  in  the  furrows  ;  ay, 
Or  weeding  in  the  sacred  hour  of  dawn. 
It  is  a  comely  fashion  to  be  glad,  — 
Joy  is  the  grace  we  say  to  God. 

Art  tired  ? 
Tliere  is  a  rest  remaining.     Hast  thou  sinned  ? 
There  is  a  Sacrifice.     Lift  up  thy  head, 
The  lovely  world,  and  the  over-world  alike. 
Ring  with  a  song  eterne,  a  happy  rede, 
"  TiiY  Father  loves  thee." 


Yon  moore<l  mackerel  fleet 

Hangs  thick  as  a  swarm  of  bees. 

Or  a  clustering  village  street 
Foundationless  built  on  the  seas. 


SONGS    WITH    PRELUDES.  309 

II. 

The  mariners  ply  their  craft, 

Each  set  in  his  castle  frail ; 
His  care  is  all  for  the  draught, 

And  he  dries  the  rain-beaten  sail. 

III. 

For  rain  came  down  in  the  night, 

And  thunder  muttered  full  oft, 
But  now  the  azure  is  bright, 

And  hawks  are  wheeling  aloft. 

IV. 

I  take  the  land  to  my  breast. 

In  her  coat  with  daisies  fine ; 
For  me  are  the  hills  in  their  best, 

And  all  that 's  made  is  mine. 


Sing  high  !  "  Though  the  red  sun  dip, 
There  yet  is  a  day  for  me ; 

Nor  youth  I  count  for  a  ship 
That  Ion"'  ago  foundered  at  sea. 


310  SONGS   WITH  PRELUDES. 

VI. 

"  Did  the  lost  love  die  and  depart  ? 

Many  times  since  we  have  met ; 
For  I  hold  the.  years  in  my  heart, 

And  all  that  was  —  is  yet. 

VII. 

"  I  grant  to  the  king  his  reign ; 

Let  us  yield  him  homage  due  ; 
But  over  the  lands  there  are  twain, 

O  king,  I  must  rule  as  you. 

VIII. 

"  I  grant  to  the  wise  his  meed, 
But  his  yoke  I  will  not  brook, 

For  God  taught  me  to  read  — 
He  lent  me  the  world  for 'a  book." 


SONGS    WITH   PRELUDES.  311 


FRIENDSHIP. 

ON  A  STJN-PORTRAIT  OP  BER  HUSBAND,  SENT  BT  HIS  WIFE 
TO    TIIKIK    FRIEND. 

Beautiful  eyes  —  and  shall  I  see  no  more 

The  living  thought  when  it  would  leap  from  thpm, 

And  play  in  all  its  sweetness  'neath  their  lids  ? 

Here  was  a  man  familiar  with  fair  heights 

That  poets  climb.     Upon  his  peace  the  tears 

And  troubles  of  our  race  deep  inroads  made, 

Yet  life  was  sweet  to  him ;  he  kept  his  heart 

At  home.    Who  saw  his  wife  might  well  have  thought  — 

"  God  loves  this  man.     He  chose  a  wife  for  him  — 

The  true  one  ! "     O  sweet  eyes,  that  seem  to  live, 

I  know  so  much  of  you,  tell  me  the  rest ! 

Eyes  full  of  fatherhood  and  tender  care 

For  small,  young  children.     Is  a  message  here 

That  you  would  fain  have  sent,  but  had  not  time  ? 

If  such  there  be,  I  promise,  by  long  love 

And  perfect  friendship,  by  all  trust  that  comes 


312  SONGS   WITH   PRELUDES. 

Of  understanding,  that  I  will  not  fail, 
No,  nor  delay  to  find  it. 

O,  my  heart 
Will  often  pain  me  as  for  some  strange  fault  — 
Some  grave  defect  in  nature  —  when  I  think 
How  I,  delighted,  'neath  those  olive-trees. 
Moved  to  the  music  of  the  tideless  main, 
While,  with  sore  weeping,  in  an  island  home 
They  laid  that  much-loved  head  beneath  the  sod, 
And  I  did  not  know. 


I. 

I  stand  on  the  bridge  where  last  we  stood 
When  delicate  leaves  were  young ; 

The  children  called  us  from  yonder  wood. 
While  a  mated  blackbird  sung. 

11. 

Ah,  yet  you  call,  —  in  your  gladness  call,  - 
And  I  hear  your  pattering  feet ; 

It  does  not  matter,  matter  at  all. 
You  fatherless  children  sweet,  — 


SONGS    WITH    PRELUDES.  313 

in. 

It  does  not  matter  at  all  to  you, 

Young  hearts  that  pleasure  besets ; 
The  father  sleeps,  but  the  world  is  new, 

The  child  of  his  love  forgets. 

IV. 

I  too,  it  may  be,  before  they  drop, 

The  leaves  that  flicker  to-day. 
Ere  bountiful  gleams  make  ripe  the  crop, 

Shall  pass  from  my  place  away : 

V. 

Ere  yon  gray  cygnet  puts  on  her  white, 

Or  snow  lies  soft  on  the  wold. 
Shall  shut  these  eyes  on  the  lovely  light. 

And  leave  the  story  untold. 

VI. 

Shall  I  tell  it  there  ?     Ah,  let  that  be, 

For  the  warm  pulse  beats  so  high ; 
To  love  to-day,  and  to  breathe  and  see  ^ — 

To-morrow  perhaps  to  die  — 


314  SONGS    WITH    PRELUDES.  _ 

VII. 

Leave  it  with  God.     But  this  I  have  known, 

That  sorrow  is  over  soon ; 
Some  in  dark  nights,  sore  weeping  alone, 

Forget  by  full  of  the  moon. 

VIII. 

But  if  ail  loved,  as  the  few  can  love, 
This  world  would  seldom  be  well ; 

And  who  need  wish,  if  he  dwells  above, 
For  a  deep,  a  long  death-knell. 


There  are  four  or  five,  who,  passing  this  place. 
While  they  live  will  name  me  yet ; 

And  when  I  am  gone  will  think  on  my  face, 
And  I  feel  a  kind  of  regret. 


WINSTANLEY. 


THE   APOLOGY. 

QUOTH  the  cedar  to  the  reeds  and  rushes, 
"  Water-grass,  you  know  not  what  I  do : 
Know  not  of  my  storms,  nor  of  my  hushes, 
And  —  /  know  not  you." 

Quoth  the  reeds  and  rushes,  "  Wind !  O  waken  . 

Breathe,  0  wind,  and  set  our  answer  free, 
For  we  have  no  voice,  of  you  forsaken, 
For  the  cedar-tree." 

Quoth  the  earth  at  midnight  to  the  ocean, 

"  Wilderness  of  water,  lost  to  view, 
Naught  you  are  to  me  but  sounds  of  motion; 
I  am  naught  to  you." 

Quoth  the  ocean,  "  Daicn  !  0  fairest,  clearest. 
Touch  me  with  thy  golden  fingers  bland; 


316  WIXSTANLEY. 

For  I  have  no  smile  till  thou  appearest 
For  the  lovely  land." 

Quoth  the  hero  dying,  whelmed  in  glory, 

^' Many  hlame  me,  few  have  understood ; 
Ah,  my  folk,  to  you  I  leave  a  story,  — • 
Make  its  meaning  good." 

Quoth  the  folk,  "  Sing,  poet !  teach  us,  prove  us ; 

Surely  we  shall  learn  the  meaning  then  ; 
Wound  us  with  a  pain  divine,  O  move  us, 
For  this  man  of  men." 


Winstanley's  deed,  you  kindly  folk, 

With  it  I  fill  my  lay, 
And  a  nobler  man  ne  'er  walked  the  world, 

Let  his  name  be  what  it  may. 

The  good  ship  "  Snowdrop  "  tarried  long, 

Up  at  the  vane  looked  he ; 
"  Belike,"  he  said,  for  the  wind  had  dropped, 

"  She  lieth  becalmed  at  sea." 


WIXSTAXLEY.  317 

Che  lovely  ladies  flocked  within, 

And  still  would  each  one  say, 
''  Good  mercer,  be  the  ships  come  up  ?" 

But  still  he  answered,  "  Nay." 

Then  stepped  two  mariners  down  the  street, 

With  looks  of  grief  and  fear : 
"  Now,  if  Winstanlcy  be  your  name, 

We  bring  you  evil  cheer  ! 

"  For  the  good  ship '  Snowdrop '  struck,  —  she  struck 

On  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone, 
And  down  she  went  with  threescore  men, 

We  two  being  left  alone. 

"  Down  in  the  deep,  with  freight  and  crew. 

Past  any  help  she  lies, 
And  never  a  bale  has  come  to  shore 

Of  all  thy  merchandise." 

"  For  cloth  o'  gold  and  comely  frieze," 

Winstanley  said,  and  sighed, 
"  For  velvet  coif,  or  costly  coat, 

They  fothonis  deep  may  bide. 


318  WINSTANLEY. 

"  O  thou  brave  skipper,  blithe  and  kind, 

O  mariners,  bold  and  true, 
Sorry  at  heart,  right  sorry  am  I, 

A-thinking  of  yours  and  you. 

"  Many  long  days  Winstanley's  breast 

Shall  feel  a  weight  within, 
For  a  waft  of  wind  he  shall  be  'feared 

And  trading  count  but  sin. 

"  To  him  no  more  It  shall  be  joy 

To  pace  the  cheerful  town, 
And  see  the  lovely  ladies  gay 

Step  on  in  velvet  gown." 

The  "  Snowdrop"  sank  at  Lammas  tide, 

All  under  the  yeasty  spray ; 
On  Christmas  Eve  the  brig  "  Content " 

Was  also  cast  away. 

He  little  thought  o'  New  Year's  night, 

So  jolly  as  he  sat  then, 
While  drank  the  toast  and  praised  the  roast 

The  round-faced  Aldermen,  — 


WINSTANLEY.  319 

While  serving-lads  ran  to  and  fro, 

Pouring  the  ruby  wine, 
And  jellies  trembled  on  the  board, 

And  towering  pasties  fine,  — 

While  loud  huzzas  ran  up  the  roof 

Till  the  lamps  did  rock  o'erhead, 
And  holly-boughs  from  rafters  hung 

Dropped  down  their  berries  red,  — 

He  little  thought  on  Plymouth  Hoe, 

With  every  rising  tide, 
How  the  wave  washed  in  his  sailor  lads, 

And  laid  them  side  by  side. 

There  stepped  a  stranger  to  the  board : 

"  Now,  stranger,  who  be  ye  ?  " 
He  looked  to  right,  he  looked  to  left, 

And  "  Rest  you  merry,"  quoth  he  ; 

"  For  you  did  not  see  the  brig  go  down, 

Or  ever  a  storm  had  blown  ; 
For  you  did  not  see  the  white  wave  rear 

At  the  rock,  —  the  Eddy  stone. 


320  WINSTAXLEY. 

"  She  drave  at  the  rock  with  sternsails  set ; 

Crash  went  the  masts  in  twain ; 
She  staggered  back  with  her  mortal  blow, 

Then  leaped  at  it  again. 

"  There  rose  a  great  cry,  bitter  and  strong, 

The  misty  moon  looked  out ! 
And  the  water  swarmed  with  seamen's  heads. 

And  the  wreck  was  strewed  about. 

"  I  saw  her  mainsail  lash  the  sea 

As  I  clung  to  the  rock  alone  ; 
Then  she  heeled  over,  and  down  she  went, 

And  sank  like  any  stone, 

"  She  was  a  fair  ship,  but  all 's  one  ! 

For  naught  could  bide  the  shock." 
"  I  will  take  horse,"  Winstanley  said, 

"  And  see  this  deadly  rock." 

*'  For  never  again  shall  bark  o'  mine 

Sail  over  the  windy  sea, 
Unless,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  for  this 

Be  found  a  remedy." 


I 


WIXSTANLEY.  321 

Winstanlcy  rode  to  Plymouth  town 

All  in  the  sleet  and  the  snow, 
And  he  looked  around  on  shore  and  sound 

As  he  stood  on  Plymouth  Hoe- 
Till  a  pillar  of  spray  rose  far  away, 

And  shot  up  its  stately  head, 
Reared  and  fell  over,  and  reared  again  : 

"  'T  is  the  rock  !  the  rock  !  "  he  said. 

Straight  to  the  Mayor  he  took  his  way, 

"  Good  Master  INIayor,"  quoth  he, 
"  I  am  a  mercer  of  London  town. 

And  owner  of  vessels  three,  — 

"  But  for  your  rock  of  dark  renown, 

I  had  five  to  track  the  main." 
"  You  are  one  of  many, "  the  old  Mayor  said, 

"  That  on  the  I'oek  complain. 
• 
"  An  ill  rock,  mercer !  your  words  ring  right. 

Well  Avith  my  thoughts  they  chime. 
For  my  two  sons  to  the  world  to  come 

It  sent  before  their  time." 


322  WINSTANLEY. 

"  Lend  me  a  lighter,  good  Master  Mayor, 
And  a  score  of  slilpwrights  free, 

For  I  think  to  raise  a  lantern  tower 
On  this  rock  o'  destiny." 

The  old  Mayor  laughed,  but  sighed  also  ; 

"  Ah,  youth,"  quoth  he,  "  is  rash ; 
Sooner,  young  man,  thou  'It  root  it  out 

From  the  sea  that  doth  it  lash. 

"  Who  sails  too  near  its  jagged  teeth, 

He  shall  have  evil  lot ; 
For  the  calmest  seas  that  tumble  there 

Froth  like  a  boiling  pot. 

"  And  the  heavier  seas  few  look  on  nigh, 
But  straight  they  lay  him  dead ; 

A  seventy-gun-ship,  sir !  —  they  11  shoot 
Higher  than  her  mast-head. 

"  O,  beacons  sighted  in  the  dark, 
They  arc  right  welcome  things. 

And  pitchpots  flaming  on  the  shore 
Show  fair  as  angrel  wings. 


AVINSTAXLEY.  323 

"  Ilast  gold  in  hand  ?  then  light  the  land, 

It  'longs  to  thee  and  me  ; 
But  let  alone  the  deadly  rock 

In  God  Almighty's  sea." 

Yet  said  he,  "  Nay,  —  I  must  away. 

On  the  rock  to  set  my  feet ; 
My  debts  are  paid,  my  will  I  made, 

Or  ever  I  did  thee  greet. 

"  If  I  must  die,  then  let  me  die 

By  the  rock  and  not  elsewhere  ; 
If  I  may  live,  O  let  me  live 

To  mount  my  lighthouse  stair." 

The  old  Mayor  looked  him  in  the  foce, 

And  answered  :  "  Have  thy  way ; 
Thy  heart  is  stout,  as  if  round  about 

It  was  braced  with  an  iron  stay : 

"  Have  thy  will,  mercer  !  choose  thy  men, 

Put  off  from  the  storm-rid  shore ; 
God  with  thee  be,  or  I  shall  see 

Thy  face  and  theirs  no  more." 


324  WIXSTANLEY. 

Heavily  plunged  the  breaking  wave, 

And  foam  flew  up  the  lea, 
Morning  and  even  the  drifted  snow 

Fell  into  the  dark  gray  sea. 

Winstanley  chose  him  men  and  gear; 

He  said,  "  My  time  I  waste," 
For  the  seas  ran  seething  up  the  shore, 

And  the  wrack  drave  on  in  haste. 

But  twenty  days  he  waited  and  more 

Pacing  the  strand  alone. 
Or  ever  he  set  his  manly  foot 

On  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone. 

Then  he  and  the  sea  began  their  strife, 
And  worked  with  power  and  might : 

Whatever  the  man  reared  up  by  day 
The  sea  broke  down  by  night. 

He  wrought  at  ebb  with  bar  and  beam, 
He  sailed  to  shore  at  flow ; 

And  at  his  side,  by  that  same  tide. 
Came  bar  and  beam  also. 


WJLNSTAXLEY.  325 

"  Give  in,  give  in,"  the  old  Mayor  cried, 

"  Or  thou  wilt  rue  the  day." 
**  Yonder  he  goes,"  the  townsfolk  sighed, 

"  But  the  rock  will  have  its  way. 

"  For  all  his  looks  that  are  so  stout, 

And  his  speeches  brave  and  fair, 
He  may  wait  on  the  wind,  wait  on  the  wave, 

But  he  11  build  no  lighthouse  there." 

In  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

The  rock  his  arts  did  flout, 
Through  the  long  days  and  the  short  days, 

Till  all  that  year  ran  out. 

With  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

Another  year  came  in  : 
"  To  take  his  wage,"  the  workmen  said, 

"  We  almost  count  a  sin." 

Now  March  was  gone,  came  April  in, 

And  a  sea-fog  settled  down, 
And  forth  sailed  he  on  a  glassy  sea. 

He  sailed  from  Plymouth  town. 


326  WINSTANLEY. 

With  men  and  stores  he  put  to  sea, 

As  he  was  wont  to  do  ; 
They  showed  In  the  fog  like  ghosts  full  faint,  — 

A  ghostly  craft  and  crew. 

And  the  sea-fog  lay  and  waxed  alway. 
For  a  long  eight  days  and  more ; 

"  God  help  our  men,"  quoth  the  women  then ; 
"  For  they  bide  long  from  shore." 

They  paced  the  Hoe  in  doubt  and  dread  : 

"  Where  may  our  mariners  be  ?  " 
But  the  brooding  fog  lay  soft  as  down 
Over  the  quiet  sea. 

A  Scottish  schooner  made  the  port. 

The  thirteenth  day  at  e'en : 
"  As  I  am  a  man,"  the  captain  cried, 

"  A  strange  sight  I  have  seen  : 

"  And  a  strange  sound  heard,  my  masters  all. 
At  sea,  in  the  fog  and  the  rain, 

Like  shipwrights'  hammers  tapping  low. 
Then  loud,  then  low  again. 


WINSTANLEY.  327 

"  And  a  stately  house  one  instant  showed, 

Through  a  rift,  on  the  vessd's  lee ; 
What  manner  of  creatures  may  be  those 

That  build  upon  the  sea  ?  " 

Then  sighed  the  folk,  "  The  Lord  be  praised ! " 
And  they  flocked  to  the  shore  amain  ; 

All  over  the  Hoe,  that  livelong  night, 
Many  stood  out  in  the  rain. 

It  ceased,  and  the  red  sun  reared  his  head, 

And  the  rolling  fog  did  flee  ; 
And,  lo  !  in  the  offing  faint  and  far 

Winstanley's  house  at  sea  ! 

In  fair  weather  with  mirth  and  cheer 

The  stately  tower  uprose  ; 
In  foul  weather,  with  hunger  and  cold, 

They  were  content  to  close  ; 

Till  up  the  stair  Winstanley  went, 

To  fire  the  wick  afar ; 
And  Plymouth  in  the  silent  night 

Looked  out,  and  saw  her  star. 


1 


328  WINSTANLEY. 

Winstatiley  set  his  foot  ashore  : 

Said  he,  "  My  work  is  done ; 
I  hold  it  strong  to  last  as  long 

As  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

«  But  if  it  fail,  as  fail  it  may, 

Borne  down  with  ruin  and  rout. 
Another  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

And  brace  the  girders  stout. 

"  A  better  than  I  shall  rear  it  high. 

For  now  the  way  is  plain, 
And  though  I  were  dead,"  Winstanley  said, 

"  The  light  would  shine  again. 

"  Yet,  were  I  fain  still  to  remain. 

Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep ; 

"  And  if  it  stood,  why,  then  't  were  good. 

Amid  their  tremulous  stirs, 
To  count  each  stroke,  when  the  mad  waves  broke, 

For  cheers  of  mariners. 


WINSTAXLEY.  329 

"  But  if  it  fell,  then  this  were  well, 

That  I  should  with  it  fall ; 
Since,  for  my  part,  I  have  built  my  heart 

In  the  courses  of  its  wall. 

"  Ay  !  I  were  fain,  long  to  remain, 

Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep." 

With  that  Winstanley  went  his  way, 

And  left  the  rock  renowned, 
And  summer  and  winter  his  pilot  star 

Hung  bright  o'er  Plymouth  Sound. 

But  it  fell  out,  fell  out  at  last, 

That  he  would  put  to  sea, 
To  scan  once  more  his  lighthouse  tower 

On  the  rock  o'  destiny. 

And  the  winds  woke,  and  the  storm  broke. 

And  wrecks  came  plunging  in ; 
None  in  the  town  that  night  lay  down 

Or  sleep  or  rest  to  win. 


f 


330  WINSTANLEY. 

The  great  mad  waves  were  rolling  graves, 

And  each  flung  up  its  dead ; 
The  seething  flow  was  white  below, 

And  black  the  sky  o'erhead. 

And  when  the  dawn,  the  dull,  gray  dawn. 

Broke  on  the  trembling  town, 
The  men  looked  south  to  the  harbor  mouth, 

The  lighthouse  tower  was  down. 

Down  in  the  deep  where  he  doth  sleep 

Who  made  it  shine  afar. 
And  then  in  the  night  that  drowned  its  light, 

Set,  with  his  pilot  star. 


Many  fair  lombs  in  the  glonous  glooms 

At  Westminster  they  show ; 
The  brave  and  the  great  lie  there  in  state : 

Winstanley  lieth  low. 


I 


NOTES, 


Page  1. 

This  story  I  first  \vi-ote  in  prose,  and  it  was  published  some 
years  ago. 

Page  113. 

The  name  of  the  patriarch's  wife  is  intended  to  be  pro- 
nounced Nigh-loi-ya. 

Of  the  three  sons  of  Noah  —  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japhet  —  I 
have  called  Japhet  the  youngest  (because  he  is  always  named 
last),  and  have  supposed  tliat,  in  the  genealogies  where  he  is 
called  "Japhet  the  elder,"  he  may  have  received  the  epithet 
because  by  that  time  there  were  j'ounger  Japhets. 

Page  193. 

The  quivering  butterflies  in  companies, 
That  slowly  crept  adovrn  the  sandy  marge, 
Like  living  crocus  beds. 

This  beautiful  comparison  is  taken  from  "  The  Naturalist 
on  the  River  Amazons."  "Vast  numbers  of  orange-colored 
butterflies  congregated  on  the  moist  sands.     They  assembled 


332  NOTES. 

in  densely-packed  masses,  sometimes  two  or  three  yards  in 
circumference,  their  wings  all  held  in  an  upright  position,  so 
that  the  sands  looked  as  though  variegated  with  beds  of  a-o- 
cuses.''^ 

"Gladys  and  her  Island." 

The  woman  is  Imagination;  she  is  brooding  over  what  she 
brought  forth. 

The  two  purple  peaks  represent  the  domains  of  Poetry  and 
of  History. 

The  girl  is  Fancy. 

"  WiNSTANLEY." 

This  ballad  was  intended  to  be  one  of  a  set,  and  was  read 
to  the  children  in  the  National  Schools  at  Sherborne,  Dorset- 
shire, in  order  to  discover  whether,  if  the  actions  of  a  hero 
were  simply  and  plainly  narrated,  English  children  would  like 
to  learn  the  verses  recording  them  by  heart,  as  their  forefathers 
did. 


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"A  greater  verbal  epicurean  than  Leigh  Hunt  never  lived.  He  luxuriated 
over  niceties  of  exiiression  and  revelled  in  a  delicious  image  or  apt  phrases  ;  he 
was  always  seeking  the  beautiful  in  neglected  fields  of  literature  ;  and  to  renew 
his  acquaintance  with  the  memorable  sonnets  of  Italian  and  English  poets  was 
simply  a  labor  of  love.  He  therefore  wrote  an  essay  giving  the  history  of  the 
sonnet,  and  defining  its  conditions  and  possibilities,  expatiated  on  the  special 
merits  of  each  renowned  writer  in  this  sphere,  and  indicated  the  most  striking 
examples  of  success  in  artistic  and  effective  construction  or  eloquent  feeling  as 
thus  embodied  and  expressed."  —  H.  T.  Tuckermatt. 

"Whether  Leigh  Hunt  was  a  man  of  genius,  or  only  of  surpassing  talent 
is  a  question  which  we  willingly  leave  to  the  critics  who  find  twecdledee  differ 
ent  from  tweedledum  in  kind  as  well  as  degree.  We  are  content  with  the  fact 
that  he  has  some  virtue  which  makes  us  read  ever)'  book  of  liis  we  open,  and 
which  leaves  us  more  his  friend  at  the  end  than  we  were  before.  Indeed,  it 
would  be  hard  not  to  love  so  cheerful  and  kindly  a  soul,  even  if  his  art  were 
ever  less  than  chaiTning.  But  literature  seems  to  have  always  been  a  gay  sci- 
ence with  him.  We  never  see  his  Muse  as  the  harsh  step-mother  she  really 
was  :  we  are  made  to  think  her  a  gentle  liege-lady,  served  in  the  airiest  spirit  of 
chivalric  devotion  ;  and  in  the  Essay  in  this  '  Uook  of  the  Sonnet'  her  aspect 
is  as  sunny  as  any  the  poet  has  ever  shown  us. 

"The  E>say  is  printed  for  the  first  time,  and  it  was  written  in  Hunt's  ol» 
age ;  but  it  is  full  of  light-heartedness,  and  belongs  in  feeling  to  a  period  a> 
least  as  early  as  that  which  produced  the  '  Stories  from  the  Italian  Poets.'  It 
is  one  of  those  studies  in  which  he  was  always  happy,  for  it  keeps  him  chiefly 
m  Italy  ;  and  when  it  takes  him  from  Italy,  it  only  brings  him  into  the  Italian 
air  of  English  sonnetry,  —  a  sort  of  soft  Devonshire  coast,  bordering  the  rug- 
geiiar  native  poetry  on  the  south."  —  W.  D.  Howells,  in  Atlantic  AlotU/Uji. 


Sold  everywhere.     Mailed,  postpaid,  by  the  Publishers- 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS, 
Boston 


Leigh    Himf s    Writings, 


THE  SEER ;  or,  Commonpt.aces  Refreshed. 
"  Love  adds  a  precious  '"eing  to  the  e_ye."  —  Shake- 
speare. In  two  volumes,.  i6mo.  Cloth,  gilt  top. 
Price,  $3.00. 

Contents  of  "  The  Seer." 

Cat  by  the  Fire  ;  Put  up  a  Picture  in 
your  Room  ;  A  CJentlenian-Saint  ; 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agna*;  A  "  Now," 
descriptive  of  a  cold  day ;  Ice,  with 
Poets  upon  it  ;  The  Piano-forte ; 
Why  Sweet  Music  produces  Sadness  ; 
Dancing  and  Dancers ;  Twelfth 
Night;  Rules  in  ^Making  Presents; 
Romance  of  Commonplace  ;  Amiable- 
ness  Superior  to  Connnon  Intellect; 
Life  After  Death,  —  Belief  in  Spirits ; 
On  Death  and  Purial ;  On  Washer- 
women ;  The  Nightmare  ;  The  Flor- 
entine Lovers  ;  Khvme  and  Reason  ; 
Vicissitudes  of  a  Lecture  ;  The  For- 
tvmes  of  Genius;  Poets'  Houses; 
A  Journey  by  Coach  ;  Inexhaustibility 
of  the  Subject  of  Chiisunas. 


Pleasure ;  On  a  Pebble ;  Spring ; 
Color  ;  Windows  ;  Windows,  con- 
sidered from  inside ;  A  Flower  for 
your  Window ;  A  Word  on  Early 
Rising  ;  Breakfest  in  Summer ;  Anac- 
reon ;  The  Wrong  Sides  of  Scholar- 
ship and  No  Scholarship  ;  Cricket  ; 
A  Dusty  Day ;  Bricklayers,  and  An 
Old  Book  ;  A  Rainy  Day ;  The  East 
Wind;  Strawberries;  The  Waiter: 
The  Butcher;  A  Pinch  of  Snuff; 
Wordsworth  and  Milton  ;  Specimens 
of  Chaucer ;  Peter  Wilkins  and  the 
Flying  Woman  ;  English  and  French 
Females ;  English  Male  Costume  ; 
English  Women  Vindicated  ;  Sunday 
in  London  ;  Sunday  in  the  Suburbs ; 
A  Human  Being  and  a  Crowd  ;  The 


"  '  The  Seer '  is  a  capital  companion  in  the  traveller's  pocket,  and  by  the 
bachelor's  coffee-cup,  and  whenever  one  wishes  a  nibble  at  the  good  things  of 
the  library  at  home.  No  one  can  behold  the  face  of  Nature  without  fuiduig  a 
smile  upon  it,  if  he  looks  there  through  the  eyes  of  'The  Seer.'  "  —  Boston 
Daily  A  dz'ertiser. 

"A  collection  of  delicious  essays,  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  characteristics 
of  the  writer's  genius  and  manner,  and  on  tojiics  especially  calculated  to  bring 
out  all  the  charms  of  his  genial  spirit  and  develop  all  the  niceties  of  Iiis  fluent 
diction,  and  worthy  of  being  domesticated  among  those  choice  family  bonks 
which  while  away  leisure  hours  with  agreeable  thoughts  and  fancies."  — 
A-.  P.  Whipple. 

"  'The  Seer'  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  the  modem  essayist's  dealing 
with  the  minor  pleasures  and  domestic  philosophy  of  life,  and  is  a  capital  ami 
dote  for  the  too  exciting  books  of  the  hour ;  it  lures  us  to  musing,  and  whai 
Hailitt  calls  '  reposing  on  our  sensations.' "  —  H.  T.  Tuckemtan. 


Sitld  everywhere.     Mailed,  postpaid,  by  the  Publishers. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS, 

Boston. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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